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[See Page 579.] 


Illustrated Magazine 

For Girls and Boys, 



November, 1877, to November, 1878. 


Copyright by Scribner & Co., 1878. 

Press of Francis Hart & Co. 
New- York. 

Libfiiiy, Univ. of 
North Carotin* 



Alcott, Miss. (Illustrated from photograph) F. B. S 129 

Alphabet Francais, Un. (Illustrated) Laura Caxton 816 

Always Behindhand. Talk with Girls M. D. K 434 

Annie and the Balls. (Illustrated by the Author) H. E. H 205 

April's Sunbeam. Verses Joy Allison 39S 

Arms of Great Britain, The. (Illustrated by Alfred Kappes) Susan Archer Weiss 190 

Atlantic Cable, Secrets of the. (Illustrated by A. C. Warren) William PL Rideing 327 

Ax OF Ranier, The. (Illustrated by E. B. Bensell ) Thomas Dunn English 709 

" Baby's Opera " and Walter Crane, The 69 

Barbecue, The. (Illustrated by Walter Shirlaw) Sarah Winter Kellogg. . 602 

Belinda Blonde. Verses Laura E. Richards 272 

Bell-Ringers, The Stickleback. (Illustrated by James C. Beard) C. F. Holder 31 

Birds and Their Families. (Illustrated) Professor W. K. Brooks . . . 606 

Birds Fly, How. (Illustrated) Professor I!'. A". Brooks 734 

Boggs's Photograph. Picture 21 

Born in Prison. (Illustrated by Edwin L. Sheppard) Julia P. Ballard 730 

Boy IN THE Box, The. (Illustrated by C. S. Reinhart) Helen C. Barnard 356 

Boy's Experience With Tar Marbles, A. (Illustrated by Jessie Curtis). . C. S. X 617 

Boy who Jumped on Trains, The. Poem. (Illustrated by L. Hopkins). . .Mary Hartwell 132 

Bruno's Revenge. (Illustrated) \ 7 ui ^ "f " A ' i,Y in w<md ^- 

v ' ^ land iS 

Butterfly-Chase, The. Poem Ellis Gray 54S 

Butts, A Chapter of. Five Pictures 77 

By the Sad Sea Waves. Picture drawn by " Sphinx " 716 

Can a Little Child Like Me ? (Thanksgiving Hymn) Vary Mapes Dodge 6S 

Canary that Talked too Much, The Margaret Eytinge 331 

Carlyle, Thomas. (Crumbs from Older Reading, III.) Tulia E. Sargent- . . 565 

Carol, The Minstrel's. A Christmas Colloquy /. J'. Blake 153 

Charades, Four. Verses , C. P. Cranch 406 

Charcoal-Burners' Fire, The. (Illustrated by J. L. Dickinson) David Aver 490 

Child-Queen, A. (Illustrated by Alfred Fredericks) Cecilia Cleveland 1 

Christmas Card 91 

Christmas-Gifts, A Budget of Home-Made. (Illustrated) 42 

Churning. Poem. (Illustrated by J. E. Kelly) Sara A'eafiles Hunt 670 

Cock and the Sun, The. Jingle. (Illustrated by F. S. Church) J. P. B 359 

q Common-sense in the Household. Verses. (Illustrated by Jessie Curtis) Margaret I'andegrift 326 

^9 Coolest Man in Russia, The. (Illustrated by J. E. Kelly) David A'er 229 

C^ Cricket on the Hearth, The. Poem. (Illustrated) Clara Doty Bates 33 

s Crip's Garret-Day Sarah J. Priehard 339 

""" Crow that the Crow Crowed, The .S". Conant Foster 694 



Crumbs from Older Reading Julia E. Sargent 

I. Emerson 262 

II. Irving '. 354 

III. Carlyle 565 

Dab Kinzer: A Story of a Growing Boy. (Illustrated by H. F. Farney, \ William 0. Stoddard. . .553, 620 

Geo. Inness, Jr., Sol. Eytinge and H. P. Smith S 679. 744. 79§ 

Debby's Christmas. (Illustrated by Jessie Curtis) Ella A. Drinkwater 223 

Dick Hardin Away at School Lucy J. Rider 386 

Digger-Wasps at Home, The. (Illustrated by R. Riordan) E. A. E 667 

Dog-Show, A Visit to a London. (Illustrated by J. F. Runge) Laura Skeel Pomeroy 420 

Drifted Into Port. (Illustrated by Sol. Eytinge and Thomas Moran) Edwin Hodder 342, 425, 494 

Easter Eggs. Poem Clara W. Raymond 419 

Easter in Germany. (Illustrated) E. E. Come 381 

Easter Lilies. Picture 399 

Emergency Mistress, The. (Illustrated) Frank R. Stockton 669 

Emerson, Ralph Waldo. (Crumbs from Older Reading, I.) Julia E. Sargent 262 

Exciting Ride, An. Picture drawn by Miss S. A. Rankin 652 

Fair Exchange, A. Poem M. F. Butts 820 

Father Chirp. Verses. (Illustrated by L. Hopkins) .?. C. Stone 476 

Fern-Seed. Poem Celia Thaxter 705 

Fishing-Birds of Florida, Some. (Illustrated) Mrs. Mary Treat 282 

Forty, Less One. Poem. (Illustrated by Sol. Eytinge) James Richardson 579 

" Four Little Houses Blue and Round." Jingle M. F. B 465 

Fox, the Monkey, and the Pig, The. (Illustrated by the Author) Howard Pyle 743 

Fox and the Turkeys, The. (Illustrated from Gustave Dor£) Susan Coolidge 756 

Full Stop, A. Silhouette picture drawn by L. Hopkins 387 

Gerty. (Illustrated by Frederick Dielman) Margaret W. Hamilton 690 

Get Up ! Got Down ! Silhouettes drawn by L. Hopkins 461 

Gifts for St. Nicholas. Poem Emma E. Brewster 294 

Girl Who Saved the General, The. (Illustrated by H. F. Farney) Charles H. Woodman 577 

Guest, An Agreeable Susan A. Brown 180 

Hansa, The Little Lapp Maiden. (Illustrated) Kate B. Horton 305 

Happy Fields of Summer. Poem. (Illustrated) Lucy Larcom 666 

"Happy Little Froggy." Poem. (Illustrated by F. S. Church) E. Miiller 789 

Horse at Sea, A. (Illustrated by J. E. Kelly) C. B 367 

Horses of Venice, The Famous. (Illustrated) Mary Lloyd 89 

How Birds Fly. (Illustrated) Professor W. R~. Brooks 734 

How He Caught Him. Six Pictures 740 

How I Weighed the Thanksgiving Tuhkey G. M. Shaw 34 

How Kitty got Her New Hat. (Illustrated by J. E. Kelly) E. P. IF 182 

How Kitty was Lost IN A Turkish Bazaar. (Illustrated by Howard ~Py\e). Sara Readies Hunt 377 

How Lily-Toes was Caught in a Shower. (Illustrated by Jessie Curtis) Emily H. Leland 731 

How Mandy went Rowing with the Cap'n. (Illustrated by the Author). Alaiy Hallock Foote 449 

How Matches are Made. (Illustrated by A. C. Warren) F. H. C 315 

How Sir William Phips Found the Treasure in the Sea. (Illus- ) _ „ . . 

_ . , • \S. G. W. Benjamin 278 

• trated by J. O. Davidson) > 

How Teddy Cut the Pie. Verses. (Illustrated) Rossiter Johnson 821 

How the Pony was Taken. (Illustrated) C. W 1 74 

How the Stone-Age Children' Played. (Illustrated) Charles C. Abbott 413 

How the Weather is Foretold. (Illustrated by W. H. Gibson) James H. Flint 581 

How to Keep a Journal W. S. Jerome 789 

How to Make a Telephone. (Illustrated) M. F 549 

How to Travel Susan Anna Brown 650 

How Willy Wolly went a-Fishing. Verses. (Illustrated by Howard Pyle) S. C. Stone 562 

Huckleberry. (Illustrated) Frank R. Stockton 274 

Icf.-Boat, How to make an. (Diagrams by the Author) J. H. Hubbard 220 



" I 'm a Little Story." Poem. (Illustrated by Sol. Eytinge) Margaret Eytinge 380 

Irving, Washington. (Crumbs from Older Reading, III.) lulia E. Sargent 354 

Italian Flower- Merchant, The Little. Picture drawn by Miss E. M. S. ScanneU. . . . 475 

Jack's Christmas. (Illustrated by Jennie Brownscombe) Emma K. Parrish 124 

Japanese " House that Jack Built," The. Picture drawn by William McDougal 219 

Jingles 6, 41, 359, 404, 412, 465 

John and His Velocipede. Sketches drawn by B. D 650 

Johnny. (Illustrated by R. Sayre) Sargent Flint 361 

Johnny's Lost Ball Lloyd Wynian 500 

Juno's Wonderful Troubles. (Illustrated by F. S. Church) E. Miiller 312 

Kept In. Picture drawn by M. Wool/. 424 

King and the Hard Bread, The. (Illustrated) /. L 503 

King and the Three Travelers, The. (Illustrated by John Lafarge) -Irlo Bates 207 

King Cheese. Poem. Versified from story by Maud Christian!. (Illustrated 

>J. T. Trowbridge 641 

by L. Hopkins) ) 

Lady-Bird, Fly away Home. Picture drawn by M. Woolf. 455 

Left Out. Verse • A. G. W 128 

Letter to American Boys, A George Mac Donald 202 

Linnet's F"ee, The. Poem Mrs. Annie A. Preston 79/8 

Lion-Killer, The. (Illustrated by Alfred Kappes). From the French. .. .Mary Wager Fisher 7S 

Little Bear. Poem. (Illustrated by Addie Ledyard) Samuel W. Ditffield 726 

" Little Bo-Peep, She went to Sleep." Picture drawn by Miss Jessie McDermot. 268 

Little Red Canal-Boat, The. (Illustrated) M. A. Edwards 541 

Living Silver Mary H. Seymour 350 

London Chair-Mender. (Illustrated) Alexander Wainwright . . . . 821 

London Chick-Weed Man, The. (Illustrated) Alexander Wainwright 361 

London Dust-Man, The. (Illustrated) Alexander Wainwright 272 

London Milk- Woman, The. (Illustrated) Alexander Wainwright 694 

Long Journey, A. Verses Tosephine Pollard 540 

Lord Mayor of London's Show, The. (Illustrated) lenuie A. Owen 22 

Mackerel- Fishing. (Illustrated by H. P. Smith) Robert Arnold 706 

Magician and His Bee, The. (Illustrated) P. F 143 

Making it Skip. Verse. (Illustrated by Thomas Moran) M. M. D 15 

Making Ready for a Cruise. Picture 561 

Man Who Did n't Know When to Stop, The. Verse M. M. D 415 

Marbles, Some In-door Games of. (Illustrated) L. D. Snook 295 

Mars, the Planet of War. (Illustrated by the Author) Richard A. Proctor 26 

Marshal de Saxe and the Dutch Blacksmith David Ker 436 

Master Montezuma. (Illustrated) C. C. Haskins 535 

Matches are Made, How. (Illustrated by A. C. Warren) F. H. C 315 

May-Day, The Story of. (Illustrated by Howard Pyle) Olive Thome 4S6 

Meadow Talk. Verse. (Illustrated by Jessie Curtis) Caroline Leslie 617 

Merry Mike. Poem. (Illustrated by Albert Shults) Fleta Forrester 176 

Merry Rain. Poem Fleta Forrester 425 

Mocking-Bird and the Donkey, The. Poem William Cullen Bryant . . . . SS 

Modern William Tell, A. Picture drawn by L. Hopkins 207 

Mollie's Boyhood. (Illustrated by George White) Sarah E. Chester 7 

Money is Made, Where. (Illustrated by Fred. B. Schell) M. II'. 477 

Monument with a Story, A Fannie Roper Feudge 364 

Moon, From a Frog's Point of View, The. ( Illustrated by H. L. Stephens) Fleta Forrester 677 

Mousie's Adventures from Garret to Cellar. Picture drawn by " Sphinx'' 405 

Music on All Fours. Poem. (Illustrated by Sol. Eytinge) . . . .Josephine Pollard 200 

Mustang, The Wild. ( Illustrated) Charles Barnard 396 

My Girl. Poem John S. Adams 25 

My St. George. ( Illustrated by Alfred Kappes) Alice Maude Eddy 726 

Nancy Chime. Poem. (Illustrated) S. Smith 739 


Nan's Peace-Offering. (Illustrated by C. S. Reinhart) Kate W. Hamilton 284 

News-Carrier, The. Poem. (Illustrated by Jessie Curtis) Catharine S. Boyd 349 

New-Year Card 182 

Night With a Bear, A. (Illustrated by W. L. Sheppard) Jane G. Austin 332 

Nimble Jim and the Magic Melon. (Illustrated by E. B. Bensell) J. A. Judson 34 

No School To-Day. Picture. Drawn by F. Opper 146 

Now, OR Then ? Talk with Girls Gail Hamilton 123 

" Oh, I 'M MY Mamma's Lady-Girl." Verse. (Illustrated by Addie Ledyard) M. M. D 41 

Old Man and the Nervous Cow, The. (Illustrated by E. B. Bensell). . . .R. E 264 

Old Nicolai. (Illustrated) Paul Fort 399 

Old Soup. (Illustrated by J. E. Kelly) Mrs. E. W. Latimer 463 

" One Day an Ant Went to Visit Her Neighbor." Jingle M. F. B 404 

One Saturday. (Illustrated by Sol. Eytinge) Sarah Winter Kellogg 514 

Only a Doll. Poem Sarah O. Jewett 552 

On the Ice. Picture drawn by L. Hopkins 300 

"Open the Snowy Little Bed." Jingle M. F. B 412 

Out Fishing. Picture drawn by L. Hopkins 759 

Painter's Scare-Crow, The. Poem. (Illustrated by Sol. Eytinge) C. P. Cranch 714 

Parisian" Children. (Illustrated by W. F. Brown) Henry Bacon 456 

Parlor Ballooning. (Illustrated by the Author) L. Hopkins 492 

Parlor Magic. (Illustrated) Professor Leo H. Grindon. . . Sn 

Perseus, The Story of Mary A. Robinson 630 

Peterkins are Obliged to Move, The Lucretia P. Hale 458 

Peterkins' Charades, The Lucretia P. Hale 91 

Peter Piper's Pickles, Mrs. (Illustrated by F. S. Church) E. Miiller 519 

Poems by Two Little American Girls Elaine and Dora Goodale . . . 109 

Polly : A Before-Christmas Story. (Illustrated) Hope Ledyard 19 

Porpoises, About the. (Illustrated by J. O. Davidson) J. D 142 

Pottery, A Chat about. (Illustrated from photographs) Edwin C. Taylor 104 

Primkins' Surprise, Mrs. (Illustrated by Sol Eytinge) Olive Thome 794 

Prince Cucurbita. (Illustrated by E. M. Richards) Edith A. Edwards 792 

Professor, The Clarence Cook 402 

Puck Parker. (Illustrated by J. Wells Champney) Lizzie W. Champney 416 

Quicksilver Mary H. Seymour 350 

Raid of the Camanches, The The Author of " We Boys " . 267 

RAIN. Poem Edgar Fawcett 613 

Ravens and the Angels, The. (Illustrated by Sol. Eytinge) | Cotta Family ".'. ' '°" . 169" 242 

Riddle, A Double. Verses J. G. Holland 94 

Rods for Five. (Illustrated) Sarah Winter Kellogg 645 

Rowing Against Tide Theodore Winthrop 75 

Sam's Birthday. (Illustrated by Sol. Eytinge) Irwin Russell 482 

Saturday Afternoon. Picture drawn by Miss S. W. Smith 725 

Scrubby's Beautiful Tree. ( Illustrated by F. A. Chapman and Sol. Eytinge) J. C. Purdy 147 

Seeing Himself as Others See Him. Picture drawn by J. Wells Champney 431 

Shepherd-Boy, The. Poem Emily S. Oakey 241 

Silly Goose, The. Poem. (Illustrated by F. S. Church) E. A. Smuller 453 

Simple Simon. Picture, drawn by E. B. Bensell 791 

Sing-a-Sing. Poem. (Illustrated by Alfred Kappes) S. C. Stone 122 

Sing-Away Bird, The. Poem Lucy Larcom 462 

Singing Pins. (Illustrated by A. C. Warren) .-. Harlan H. Ballard 140 

Skating. Poem Theodore Winthrop 231 

Sneeze Dodson's First Independence Day. (Illustrated by Sol. Ey tinge ). Mrs. M. H. W. Jaquith 613 

Solimin : A Ship of the Desert. (Illustrated) Susan Coolidge 269 

Song of Spring, A Caroline A. Mason 482 

Something in the Old Clothes Line. (Illustrated) Paul Fort 211 


is. G. W. Benjamin 27S 


Spring and Summer. Verse Dora Read Goodale 708 

Stone-Age Children Played, How the. (Illustrated) Charles C. Abbott 413 

Stork and the Crane, The. (Illustrated) Howard Pyle 1S7 

Story that Would not be Told, The. (Illustrated) Louise Stockton 18 

Swallow, The. Poem. (Illustrated) Nathan Haskell Dole 395 

Swallows, The. Poem Dora Read Goodale 653 

Sweet-Marjoram Day. (Illustrated by E. B. Bensell) Frank R. Stockton 1 1 1 

Tale of Many Tails, A. (Illustrated by L. Hopkins) Katharine B. Foot 777 

Talk Over the Hard Times, A. Picture drawn by M. Wool/. 325 

Talks with Girls 123, 434 

Tea-Country, A Trip to the. (Illustrated) William M. Tileston 248 

Telephone, How to Make a. (Illustrated) M. F 549 

Thanks to You. Poem. (Illustrated) Mary E. Bradley 733 

There Once was a Man with a Child. (Illustrated by H. Winthrop Peirce) Frederick Palmer 222 

There was an Old Person of Crewd. (Illustrated by H. Winthrop Peirce). .Frederick Palmer 6 

Three Horse-Shoes, The David A'er 436 

Three Kings, The. Poem .Henry W. Longfellow 73 

Three Wise Women, The. Verse. (Illustrated by L. Hopkins) Mrs. E. T. Corbelt 432 

"Tolerbul" Bad Boy Again, The. (The Barbecue.) (Illustrated bv ) _ , .... 

„,.. , ? Sarah Winter JCello&r 002 

Walter Shirlaw) ) ss 

Tommy's Dream; or, the Geography Demon. Poem Laura F. Richards 213 

Too Many Birthdays. (Illustrated by W. F. Brown) Fanny M. Osborne 584 

Tower-Mountain, The. (Illustrated) G. Frankenstein. 134,214,288 

Tragedy, A Domestic. Verse. (Illustrated by F. Opper) 31 

Treasure in the Sea, How Sir William Phips found the. (Illustrated by 

J. O. Davidson 

Treasure-Trove. Poem Olive A. Wads-worth 253 

Trip to the Tea-Country, A. (Illustrated) William M. Tileston 248 

Triumph, A. Poem Celia Thaxter 513 

Troubles in High Life. Poem. (Illustrated by Addie Ledyard) Mrs. J. G. Burnett 776 

Two Kitties. Poem. (Illustrated by Mary 'Wyman Wallace) Joy Allison 823 

Two Ways. Verses Vary C. Bartlctt 366 

Under the Lilacs. (Illustrated by Mary Hallock Foote) Louisa M. Alcott, 94, 193, 255 

319, 3SS, 466. 523, 5S9, 653, 716, 7S0 

VENICE, The Famous Horses of. (Illustrated) Mary Lloyd 89 

Violin Village, The. (Illustrated by E. B. Bensell) Edith Hawkins 769 

Visit to a London Dog-Show, A. (Illustrated by J. F. Runge) Laura Skeel Pomcivy 420 

Volcano, The Largest in the World. (Illustrated by T. Moran) Sarah Coan 13 

Wait. Poem Dora Read Goodale 485 

Weather is Foretold, How the. (Illustrated by W. H. Gibson) James H. Flint 5S1 

" We Came,— We Saw. We Left." Two Pictures by E. M. Richards 7S0 

Westminster Abbey. (Illustrated) Charles IV. Squires 335 

What Happened. Verse. (Illustrated by L. Hopkins) Howell Foster 341 

Where ? Poem l/ary A r . Prescott S10 

Where Aunt Ann Hid the Sugar. (Illustrated by William McDougal). . .Mary L. Bolles Branch 317 

Where Money is Made. (Illustrated by Fred B. Schell) JL. IV 477 

Who Put Out the Tea-Party? (Illustrated by Addie Ledyard) Ellen Frances Terry 741 

Wild Geese. Poem Celia Thaxter 4S9 

Wild Wind, The. Poem Clara IV. Raymond 143 

Willow Wand, The. Poem. (Illustrated by Jessie Curtis) 4. E. IV 16 

Winter Fire-Flies. Poem Mrs. IV. X. Clarke 189 

Wise Catherine and the Kaboutermanneken. ( Illustrated by the Author) Howard Pyle 407 

Wishes. Poem Mary .V. Prescott 315 

Wolves. Chased by. (Illustrated by W. L. Sheppard) George Dudley Lawson 3 

Woods in Winter, The. (Full-page illustration) J. L ._ 352 

Yankee Boys that Did n't Number Ten, The. t'lllus. by L. Hopkins 1. IV. M. Bieknell 600 



Introduction — An Artificial Horse that can Go — A Letter from Deacon Green — "See How I Help" — Among 
the Cranberry Bogs — More Crystallized Horses — A Turtle Cart — Another Turtle Story (illustrated) — Half- 
Sweet, Half-Sour, 66 ; Introduction — A Windfall — King Alfred and the Cakes — A LiUle Schoolma'am — As 
Idle as a Bird — " Own First Cousins " — Orange Groves on St. John's River— The Blind Clerk — Birds Caught 
by Salt — A Spell upon Kerosene — The Eyebrow Word — Sincere — The Author of " Home, Sweet Home," 
156; Happy 1S78! — A Garden in Winter — Ovens in the Fields — Persian Stoves — Light Through Metal — 
Good as An Experiment — Edible Nests (illustrated) — Bird Railroad-Travelers, 234; Introduction — Nature's 
Paddle- Boats — Tiny Trees — Birds and Telegraph- Wires — "Walton's Kitty " Again — Flint Once was Sponge 
— Some Old Puzzles — The Newest Fashion — To Surprise a Dog — The Kindergarten at Home — Kaffir Ironing 
— Slippers for Horses, 298; Introduction — How Cherry Played with Water — Three Spiders — Special Dispatch 
— About Parrots — The Writing of the Pulse (illustrated) — A Peruvian Bonanza — Lumber and Timber — Queer 
Names for Towns — Answers to Riddles, 370; Hair-Braids in the Olden Time — Knots and the North Pole — 
The Trailing Arbutus — Mira in Cetus — A Rare Specimen — A Sardonic Grin — A Poser from the Little School- 
ma'am (illustrated) — Greenland — The Feast of Kites — About Solutions of Riddles, 438 ; Introduction — Trim- 
mings for Cows — Feet and Wings — Cetus Not Cygnus — A Text- — A Remedy for Hard Times — A Queer 
Churn — Cats in Spain — " Sincere " Statues — Fools' Caps for Crows (illustrated) — Ancients and Moderns — 
Lumber and Timber Again, 506; Introduction — A Rope of Eggs — Conversation by Fisticuffs — A Horse that 
Loved Tea — Tongues which Carry Teeth — Dizzy Distances — Land that Increases in Height — The Angered 
Goose (illustrated)— A City Under the Water — Reflection, 566; Introduction — Ariosto's Fairy Story — A 
Congress of Birds — Midsummer Noon — Pigs with Solid Hoofs, and Pigs that are not Pigs — Jack — " Take 
That" — Ants Again (illustrated) — Air that Sings and Talks — Plants with Hair — An Odd Hymn — Ancients 
and Moderns Once More — The Incomplete Text, 634; Introduction — Hearing Flies Walk — A Crab that 
Mows Grass — Washerwomen in Tubs — Mice in a Piano — Rattle-Boxes — A Mother with Two Million Chil- 
dren — A Chinese Floating Village (illustrated) — Information Wanted — A Bird that Sews— A Bee "Sold," 
698; Introduction — Moqui-Peekee — Potato-Blossoms as Ornaments — Sharp-Witted Robins — A Very Dead 
Language — A Plant that Walks Upside Down — The Smallest Insect Known — A Water Spout (illustrated) — 
The Uses of Hair on Plants — Dark Suns, 762 ; Introduction — The Largest Man — Catching Birds on the 
Wing — The Bee and the Anemone — Frangipani Scent and Puddings — A Sealed Postman — Wind-Harps — 
"The Joy of the Desert" (Illustrated) — Babies in Boots — Rook Coverts and Blackbird Powwows — An 
Interval not on the Programme, 826. 

For Very Little Folks. (Illustrated.) 

Little Tweet, 64; Baby-Bo — Arthur and His Pony, 158; Three Smart Little Foxes, 232; Tommy's Three 
Horses — -The Chickens That Would not be Tame, 296; Tidy and Violet: or, The Two Donkeys, 368; 
Tabby's Ride— Lullaby, 440; Discontented Polly, 504 ; " Fiddle-diddle-dee ! " 56s ; The Story Little Nell 
Read, 632; Alice's Supper, 696; Hiddy-Diddy — The Squirrels and the Chestnut-Burr, 760; Hare and 
Hounds, 824. 

Young Contributors' Department. 

Two Young Martyrs (Picture) — " Too-Loo " — Mary and her Lamb — The Death of Prince William — Aliie's 
Sunshine — " H'm. Does your Mother know you're out ? " (Picture), 162. 

The Letter-Box 69, 164, 236, 300, 372, 444, 508, 572, 636. 700, 764, 828 

Riddle-Box 71, 166, 238, 302, 374, 446, 510, 574, 638, 702, 766, 830 

Frontispieces. — "Onward with her precious burden, through shot and shell." Frontispiece of Volume 
— King Richard II. and his Child-Queen, 1 — The Holy Family. 73 — Two Ways of Carrying the Mail, 
169 — After the Snow-Storm, 241 — A Horse at Sea, 305 — Mandy and Bub by the Nets, 449 — Kitty and the 
Turkish Merchant. 377 — A Brave Girl, 513— Building the Cheese-Press, 641 — Shipwrecked. 705 — The Noon 
Encampment, 769. 



Vol. V. 

NOVEMBER, 1877. 

No. 1. 

[Copyright, 1877, by Scribner & Co.] 


By Cecilia Cleveland. 

I WONDER how many of the little girl readers of 
St. NICHOLAS are fond of history ? If they answer 
candidly, I do not doubt that a very large propor- 
tion will declare that they prefer the charming 
stories they find in St. Nicholas to the dull 
pages of history, with its countless battles and mur- 
dered sovereigns. But history is not every bit dull, 
by any means, as you will find if your elder sis- 
ters' and friends will select portions for you to read 
that are suitable to your age and interests. Per- 
haps you are very imaginative, and prefer fairy 
tales to all others. I am sure, then, that you will 
like the story I am about to tell you, of a little 
French princess, who was married and crowned 
Queen of England when only eight years old, and 
who became a widow at twelve. 

This child-sovereign was born many hundred 
years ago — in 1387 — at the palace of the Louvre in 
Paris, of whose noble picture-gallery I am sure you 
all have heard, — if, indeed, many of you have not 
seen it yourselves. She was the daughter of the 
poor King Charles VI., whose misfortunes made 
him insane, and for whose amusement playing-cards 
were invented, and of his queen, Isabeau of Bava- 
ria, a beautiful but very wicked woman. Little 
Princess Isabella was the eldest of twelve children. 
She inherited her mother's beauty, and was petted 
by her parents and the entire court of France. 

King Richard II. of England, who was a widower 
about thirty years old, was urged to marry again ; 
and, instead of selecting a wife near his own age, 
his choice fell upon little Princess Isabella. 

" She is much too young," he was told. " Even 
in five or six years she will not be old enough to be 

VOL. V.— 1. 

married." The king, however, thought this objec- 
tion too trifling to stand in the way of his marriage, 
and saying, "The lady's age is a fault that every 
day will remedy," he sent a magnificent embassy 
to the court of France, headed by the Archbishop 
of Dublin, and consisting of earls, marshals, knights, 
and squires of honor uncounted, with attendants to 
the number of five hundred. 

When the embassy reached Paris, and the offer 
of marriage had been formally accepted, the arch- 
bishop and the earls asked to see the little princess 
who was soon to become their queen. At first the 
French Council refused, saying so young a child 
was not prepared to appear on public occasions, 
and they could not tell how she might behave. 
The English noblemen were so solicitous, however, 
that at last she was brought before them. The earl 
marshal immediately knelt before her, and said, in 
the old-fashioned language of the time : " Madam, 
if it please God, you shall be our lady and queen." 

Queen Isabeau stood at a little distance, curious 
and anxious, no doubt, to know how her little 
daughter would answer this formal address. To 
her great pleasure, and the great surprise of all 
present, Princess Isabella replied : 

"Sir, if it please God and my father that I be 
Queen of England, I shall be well pleased, for I am 
told I shall then be a great lady." 

Then, giving the marshal her tiny hand to kiss, 
she bade him rise from his knees, and leading him 
to her mother, she presented him to her with the 
grace and ease of a mature woman. 

According to the fashion of the time, Princess 
Isabella was immediately married by proxy, and 



received the title of Queen of England. Froissart, 
a celebrated historian living at that epoch, says : 
"It was very pretty to see her, young as she was, 
practicing how to act the queen." 

In a few days, King Richard arrived from England 
with a gay and numerous retinue of titled ladies to 
attend his little bride. After many grand festivi- 
ties they were married and were taken in state to 
England, where the Baby Queen was crowned in 
the famous Westminster Abbey. 

I must not forget to describe the magnificent 
trotisseau that the King of France gave his little 
daughter. Her dowry was 800.000 francs ($160,- 
000) ; her coronets, rings, necklaces, and jewelry 
of all sorts, were worth 500,000 crowns ; and her 
dresses were of surpassing splendor. One was a 
robe and mantle of crimson velvet, trimmed with 
gold birds perched on branches of pearls and 
emeralds, and another was trimmed with pearl 
roses. Do you think any fairy princess could have 
had a finer bridal outfit ? 

When the ceremonies of the coronation were 
over, little Isabella's life became a quiet routine of 
study; for, although a reigning sovereign, she was 
in the position of that young Duchess of Burgundy 
of later years, who at the time of her marriage 
could neither read nor write. This duchess, who 
married a grandson of Louis XIV. of France, was 
older than Queen Isabella — thirteen years old ; and 
as soon as the wedding festivities were over, she 
was sent to school in a convent, to learn at least to 
read, as she knew absolutely nothing save how to 
dance. Queen Isabella, however, was not sent 
away to school, but was placed under the care of a 
very accomplished lady, a cousin of the king, who 
acted as her governess. In her leisure hours, the 
king, who was a fine musician, would play and sing 
for her, and. history gravely informs us, he would 
even play dolls with her by the hour ! 

But King Richard's days of quiet pleasure with 
his child-wife were at last disturbed, and he was 
obliged to leave her and go to the war in Ireland. 
The parting was very sad and affecting, and they 
never met again. 

While King Richard was in Ireland, his cousin, 
Henry of Lancaster, afterward Henry IV 7 ., took 
possession of the royal treasury, and upon the 
return of Richard from his unfortunate campaign, 
marched at the head of an army and made a pris- 
oner of him, lodging him in that grim Tower of Lon- 
don from which so few prisoners ever issued alive. 

Meantime, the poor little queen was hurried 
from one town to another, her French attendants 
were taken from her, and the members of her new 
household were forbidden ever to speak to her of 
the husband she loved so dearly. Finally, it was 
rumored that Richard had escaped. Instantly, this 

extraordinary little girl of eleven issued a proclama- 
tion saying that she did not recognize Henry IV. 
(for he was now crowned King of England) as sove- 
reign ; and she set out with an army to meet her 
husband. The poor child was bitterly disappointed 
upon learning that the rumor was false, and her 
husband was still a prisoner, and before long she 
also was again a prisoner of Henry IV., this time 
closely guarded. 

In a few months Richard was murdered in 
prison by order of King Henry, and his queen's 
childish figure was shrouded in the heavy crape 
of her widow's dress. Her superb jewelry was 
taken from her and divided among the children of 
Henry IV., and she was placed in still closer 
captivity. Her father, the King of France, sent to 
demand that she should return to him, but for a 
long time King Henry refused his consent. Mean- 
time, she received a second offer of marriage from 
— strange to say — the son of the man who had 
killed her husband and made her a prisoner, but a 
handsome, dashing young prince, Harry of Mon- 
mouth, often called "Madcap Hal." Perhaps you 
have read, or your parents have read to you, ex- 
tracts from Shakspeare's " Henry IV.," so that you 
know of the wild exploits of the Prince of Wales 
with his friends, in turning highwayman and steal- 
ing purses from travelers, often saying, 

"Where shall we take a purse to-morrow, Jack?" 

and finding himself in prison sometimes as a result 
of such amusements? Isabella was a child of 
decided character, and truly devoted to the memory 
of her husband, and much as she had enjoyed her 
rank she refused to continue it by marrying hand- 
some Madcap Hal, although he offered himself to 
her several times, and even as she was embarking 
for France. 

Poor little Isabella, who had left France so bril- 
liantly, returned a sad child-widow, and all that 
remained to her of her former splendor was a 
silver drink-cup and a few saucers. As Shak- 
speare says : 

" My queen to France, from whence set forth in pomp, 
She came adorned hither like sweet May, 
Sent back like Hallowmas or shortest day." 

She was received throughout France with joy, 
and tears of sympathy. 

When Isabella was eighteen. Madcap Hal again 
offered his hand to her, supposing she had forgotten 
her former prejudice, but although she married 
again she was so far faithful to the memory of her 
English husband that she would not accept the son 
of his murderer. Some years later, when Prince Hal 
was king, he married her beautiful sister Katherine. 

Isabella's second husband was her cousin, the 
Duke of Orleans, whose beautiful poems are con- 



sidered classic in France. Again she was the joy 
of her family and the pride of France, but all her 
happiness was destined to be fleeting, for she sur- 
vived her marriage only one year. Her husband, 
who loved her fondly, wrote after her death : 

Death, who made ihee so bold, 
To take from me my lovely princess, 
Who was my comfort, my life, 
My good, my pleasure, my riches? 
Alas ! I am lonely, bereft of my mate — 
Adieu ! my lady, my lily ! 
Our loves are forever severed." 

And in another poem, full of expressions that 

show how very devoted was his affection for her, 
he says : 

" Above her lieth spread a tomb 
Of gold and sapphires blue, 
The gold doth show her blessedness, 
The sapphires mark her true. 

" And round about, in quaintest guise, 
Was carved — ' Within this tomb there lies 
The fairest thing to mortal eyes. 1 " 

Farewell, sweet Isabella ! — a wife at eight, a 
widow at twelve, and dead at twenty-two, — your 
life was indeed short, and, though not without 
happy days, sorrow blended largely with its joy ! 

By George Dudley Lawson. 

Some forty years ago the northern part of the 
State of New York was very sparsely settled. In 
one of the remote counties, which for a name's sake 
we will call Macy County, a stout-hearted settler, 
named Devins, posted himself beyond the borders 
of civilization, and hewed for his little family a 
home in the heart of a forest that extended all the 
way from Lake Champlain to Lake Ontario. His 
nearest neighbor was six miles away, and the 
nearest town nearly twenty ; but the Devinses were 
so happy and contented that the absence of com- 
pany gave them no concern. 

It was a splendid place to live in. In summer 
the eye ranged from the slope where the sturdy 
pioneer had built his house over miles and miles of 
waving beech and maple woods, away to the dark 
line of pines on the high ground that formed the 
horizon. In the valley below, Otter Creek, a tribu- 
tary of the St. Lawrence, wound its sparkling way- 
northward. When Autumn painted the scene in 
brilliant hues, and it lay glowing under the crimson 
light of October sunsets, the dullest observer could 
not restrain bursts of admiration. 

Mr. Devins's first attack on the stubborn forest 
had been over the brow of the hill, some four miles 
nearer Owenton, but his house was burned down 
before he had taken his family there from Albany. 
He had regretted that he had not "pitched his 
tent" on the slope of Otter Creek; so now he 
began with renewed energy his second home, in 
which the closing in of the winter of 1S39 found 
him. He had sixty acres of rich soil under cultiva- 
tion at the time of which we are to speak, his right- 

hand man being his son Allan, — a rugged, hand- 
some, intelligent boy of sixteen. 

The winter of '39 was a terrible one ; snow set in 
before the end of November, and, even in the open 
country, lay upon the ground until the beginning 
of April, while in the recesses of the forest it was 
found as late as the middle of June. There was 
great distress among the settlers outside of the 
bounds of civilization, to whom the deep snow was 
an impassable barrier. The Devinses neither saw 
nor heard from their nearest neighbors from the 
first of December till near the beginning of Febru- 
ary, when a crust was formed upon the snow suffi- 
ciently firm to bear the weight of a man, and a 
friendly Cayuga Indian brought them news of how 
badly their neighbors fared. 

Mr. Devins was especially touched by the bad 
case of his friend Will Inman, who lived on the 
nearest farm. The poor man lay ill of a fever; 
Mrs. Inman was dead and temporarily buried, until 
her body could be removed to the cemetery in 
Owenton, and all the care of the family devolved 
upon Esther, his daughter, fourteen years old. 
After a short consultation, the next morning break- 
ing bright and clear though very cold, it was deter- 
mined to allow Allan to go over the hill to Inman's, 
bearing medicine, tea, and other little necessaries 
for the family. He was impressively warned to 
begin his return at so early an hour that he might 
reach home before the short day's end. especially 
because of the danger from wild animals. The 
severity of the winter had made the wolves more 
venturesome and dangerous than they had been for 



many years. Mr. Devins had lost several sheep 
and hogs, and deemed it unsafe for any of his 
family to be caught far from the house at night. 

Allan armed himself with his light rifle, put some 
biscuits and cold meat in a pouch strapped to his 
waist, mounted one of the strong farm-horses, and 
set out on his journey. The road through the 
forest was better than he expected to find it, as the 
snow had been drifted off, but at the turns, and in 
the thickest part of the wood, his horse floundered 
through drifts more than breast high ; and more 
than once Allan had to dismount and beat a path 
ahead. Therefore, he did not reach Inman's till 
two o'clock, and, by the time he had helped Esther 
about her work, assisted her young brother to get 
in a good supply of wood, and made things more 
comfortable for the invalid, it was almost sundown. 
He stoutly refused to wait for supper, declaring 
that the luncheon still in his pouch would serve, 
and started just as the short twilight came on. 
He was a brave lad, and, with no thought of peril, 
went off, kissing his hand gayly to Esther. 

It took him an hour to traverse the first three 
miles, and then he came to a stretch of compara- 
tively bare ground leading through his father's old 
clearing, and almost to the top of the hill back of 
Mr. Devins's house. He was just urging old Bob 
into a trot, when a long, clear howl broke upon his 
ear; then another and another answered from east 
and south. He knew what that meant. It was 
the cry of the advance-guard of a pack of wolves. 

The howling sounded near, and came swiftly 
nearer, as though the wolves had found his tracks 
and scented their prey. Old Bob trembled in 
every limb, and seemed powerless to move. Allan 
realized that he could not, before dark, reach home 
through the drifts ahead, and the increasing cold 
of the advancing night would render a refuge in a 
tree-top probably as deadly as an encounter with 
the pack. 

Presently there came a cry, shriller and sharper 
than before, and Allan, looking back, saw a great, 
lean, hungry gray wolf burst from the underbrush 
into the road, followed by dozens more ; and in a 
moment the road behind him was full of wolves, 
open-mouthed and in keen chase. Their yells now 
seemed notes of exultation, for the leader of the 
pack — the strongest, fleetest, hungriest one among 
them — was within a dozen yards of Allan, who was 
now riding faster than ever old Bob had gone be- 
fore or ever would go again. Excitement made the 
lad's blood boil in his veins, and he determined to 
show fight. The moon had risen, and the scene 
was almost as light as day. Now he could count 
the crowding host of his enemies, and just as he 
broke from the forest road into the old clearing, he 
turned in his saddle and fired. The foremost of 

the pack rolled over and over; the rest gathered 
around and tore their leader in pieces. 

By the time they resumed the chase, Allan was 
a hundred yards ahead with his rifle loaded. He 
determined to make a running fight of it to the 
hill, where he was sure of meeting his father, or 
could take to a tree and shoot until help came. 
This had hardly flashed through his brain when, 
right ahead of him, a detachment of the pack 
sprang into the road and answered with double 
yells the cries of the rest coming up behind. The 
horse wheeled suddenly, almost unseating Allan, 
and dashed across the clearing toward the wood ; 
but he had not taken a dozen bounds when a wolf 
sprang upon him. Old Bob reared and fell, pitch- 
ing Allan nearly twenty feet ahead, and was covered 
with wolves before he could regain his footing. 
That was the last of poor old Bob. 

But Allan ! What of him ? When he recovered 
from the effects of the shock, he found himself over 
head and ears in snow. He had no idea where he 
was, but struggled and plunged in vain endeavors . 
to extricate himself, until at last he broke into a 
space that was clear of snow, but dark as Erebus, 
damp and close. Feeling about him he discovered 
over his head logs resting slantingly against the 
upper edge of a pit, and then he knew that he was 
in the cellar of the old house his father had built, 
and which had been burned down nine years before ! 
The cellar was full of snow, except at the corner 
roofed over by the fallen logs, and Allan, bursting 
through the snow into the empty corner, was as 
secure from the wolves as though seated by his 
father's fireside. It was not nearly as cold in there 
as outside, and he found a dry spot upon which 
he lay down to think. 

He was in no danger of freezing to death, his 
food would keep him from starvation a week at least, 
and Allan concluded that, with the first glimpse 
of dawn, his father would be in search of him, and, 
following the tracks, find old Bob's bones, and 
quickly rescue him from his predicament. He 
reasoned wisely enough, but the elements were 
against him. Before sunrise a furious storm of 
wind and snow had completely obliterated every 
trace of horse, rider and wolves. 

At home, as the night wore on, the anxiety of 
the family had increased. While they were watch- 
ing the gathering storm, they heard the long, dis- 
mal howl of the wolves coming over the hill. The 
chill of fear that they should never see the boy 
again settled down upon all their hearts, until the 
house was as dreary within as the winter waste and 
gloomy forest were without. 

Meanwhile the brave youth was sound asleep, 
dreaming as peacefully as though snugly resting 
with his brother in his warm bed at home. He 

1 877. J 


slumbered on unconscious of the raging storm with- 
out, and did not awake until late the next forenoon. 
It took him several seconds to realize where he was 
and how he came there, but gradually he remem- 
bered his ride for life, the falling of his horse, his 
struggle in the snow, and his breaking into the 
protected space where he lay. 

The storm lasted all day and far into the suc- 
ceeding night. Allan ate slightly, quenched his 
thirst with a few drops of water obtained by melt- 
ing snow in the palm of his hand, and began cast- 
ing about for means to get out. He soon found that 

the forest into the clearing, he met the Indian who 
had visited him a few days before, and he told 
the red man of Allan's loss. The Indian stood a 
moment in deep thought, and then asked : 

" No horse, no boy back there?" pointing to the 
road just traversed by Mr. Devins. 

" No. I have looked carefully, and if there had 
been a trace left by the recent storm I should have 
detected it." 

"Ugh! well, me come over the hill; nothing 
that way either; then they here." 

" Why do you think so ? " 


to dig his way up through the mass of snow that filled 
the cellar was beyond his powers. If he could have 
made a succession of footholds, the task would have 
been easy; but all his efforts only tended to fill 
his retreat, without bringing him nearer the air. 
As soon as he saw this, he gave himself up to 
calmly waiting for help from without. 

The second morning of his imprisonment broke 
clear and cheerful, and Mr. Devins set out to search 
for traces of his boy. He visited the Inmans' and 
learned the particulars of Allan's stay and depart- 
ure, then mournfully turned his face homeward, his 
heart filled with despair. When he emerged from 


" Ah ! me know wolves. When Allan come to 
this place they ahead ; horse turn; wolves caught 
'em this side woods; we look there," and Tayena- 
thonto pointed to the very course taken by the 
horse and rider. 

It so happened when Allan was thrown from the 
horse's back that his rifle flew from his hand and 
struck, muzzle down, in a hollow stump, where, im- 
bedded in the snow, it stood like a sign to mark the 
scene of the last struggle of the lost boy. The snow 
had whitened all its hither side. When the Indian 
came abreast of it, he cried : 

" Told you so ! See ! Allan's gun ! And here 



rest of 'em," pointing to the little heap over the 
ruins of the old cabin. 

Kicking the snow hastily aside, the Indian exam- 
ined the ground carefully a moment and then 
said : " No, only horse ; Allan further on." 

The Indian, with head bent down, walked quickly 
forward, threw up his arms, and disappeared. He 
had stepped over the clean edge of the cellar 
and sunk exactly as Allan had. A few desperate 
plunges sufficed to take the strong Indian through 
the intervening snow and into the protected corner 
where Allan, just rousing from his second sleep, 
sat bolt upright. The Indian's coming disturbed 
the snow so that a glimmer of light penetrated into 
the dark space. Allan supposed a wolf had found 
its way down there, and hastily drew his large 
knife, bracing himself for an encounter. 

The Indian sputtered, thrashed about to clear 
himself from the snow, and in so doing rapped his 
head smartly against the low ceiling of logs. 

" Waugh ! waugh!" exclaimed he. "Too 
much low; Indian break 'em head ; lookout." 

Allan instantly recognized the voice of the Indian, 
his comrade on many a fishing and hunting tour. 

" Tayenathonto ! " he cried, "dear old fellow, 
who would have thought of you finding me ! " 

The Indian quietly replied : 

"Tayenathonto no find; come like water-fall; 
could n't help his self." 

A very few minutes sufficed to put both on the 
surface again, where Allan was received " like one 
come from the dead," and closely folded in his 
father's arms. Oh, the joy of that embrace ! The 
past grief and suffering were forgotten in the bliss 
of that moment. 

The Indian had to return with the happy father 
and son to their home, where he was hailed as 
Allan's rescuer, and enjoyed to the full a share of 
the festivities. 

In after years Allan married Esther Inman, and 
now, by the fireside in winter, he tells his grand- 
children of his escape from the wolves, and the 
little ones never tire of petting their faithful old 

There was an old person of Crewd, 
Who said, "We use saw-dust for food; 

It 's cheap by the ton, 

And it - nourishes one, 
And that's the main object of food." 




By Sarah E. Chester. 

A LITTLE girl sat squeezed in between an old fat 
man and his old bony wife in a crowded hall on a 
sultry evening in October. On one side it was as 
if feather pillows loomed above her with intent to 
smother ; on the other, sharp elbows came into 
distressing contact with her ribs. The windows 
were open ; but the hall had not been built with 
reference to transmitting draughts on suffocating 
nights for the benefit of packed audiences ; and 
everybody gasped for breath, though everybody 
fanned — that is, everybody who had a fan, a news- 
paper, a hat, or a starched handkerchief. Mollie 
had neither fan, newspaper, hat, nor handkerchief, 
and yet she of all the audience gasped unawares. 
She was stifled, but happy. Elbows and bad air 
might do their worst ; her body suffered, but her 
spirit soared. She was lifted above her neighbors, 
into an atmosphere where she was conscious of 
nothing but the eloquence that fell in such soft tones 
from the lips of the beautiful woman on the stage. 

Mollie was fatherless and brotherless. She had 
no male cousins within a thousand miles. Her 
only uncle, two blocks off, was a man whose din- 
ners rebelled against digestion, and who might 
have been beyond the seas for all the good he did 
her. They were a feminine family, — Mollie, her 
mother, the old cat and her kittens three, — bereft 
of masculine rule and care, and in need of money 
earned by masculine hands. 

The mother bore losses and lacks with the philos- 
ophy of her age ; but Mollie's age was only twelve, 
and knew not philosophy. She realized that she 
was a mistake. She was miserably aware that she 
was a mistake which could never be corrected. 
Friends repeatedly assured her that it was a great 
pity she had not been born a boy, and tantalized 
her with boyhood's possibilities. Frequent men- 
tion was made of ways in which she might minister 
to her mother's comfort if she were a son ; and all 
Mollie's day-dreams were visions of that gallant 
son's achievements. She used to close her eyes 
** and see wings and bay-windows growing around 
their little cottage and making it a mansion ; their 
old clothes gliding away, and fine new robes step- 
ping into their places ; strong servants working in 
the kitchen ; pictures stealing up the walls, and 
luxuries scattering themselves hither and thither, 
till she felt the spirit of the boy within her, and 
seemed equal to the deeds he would have done. 
Then she used to open her eyes wide to the fact 
of her girlhood and have little seasons of despair. 

This had been going on a long time, the visions, 

their destruction by facts, and the consequent 
despair ; for, of course, she had always believed 
there was nothing to be done. And now here was 
one telling her that something could be done — that 
she, even she, the little girl Mollie, had equal rights 
with boys, and that it was not only her privilege 
but her duty to claim them. Here was one exhort- 
ing her to throw off the yoke of her girlhood, talk- 
ing of a glorious career that might be hers, of 
emancipation and liberty, of a womanhood grand 
as manhood itself. And how the tremendous 
sentiments, so beautifully uttered, thrilled through 
Mollie from the crown of her hat to the toes of 
her boots ! She would have given worlds for one 
glance from that bravest of her sex who had thrown 
off the yoke, and for a chance to ask her just how 
she did it. For while Mollie had fully made up 
her mind to wear her yoke no longer, she did not 
know exactly by what means to become an emanci- 
pated creature. As she walked home with her 
hand in that of the fat gentleman who had treated 
her to the lecture, she reached the conclusion that 
no special instructions had been given because it 
was taken for granted that each woman's nobler 
instincts would guide her. She entered the gate a 
champion of freedom, a believer in the equality of 
the sexes — a girl bound to be a boy, and trusting 
to her nobler instincts to teach her how. 

No trembling and glancing back over her shoul- 
der for goblins and burglars to-night as she put 
the key into the door ! No scared chattering of 
teeth in the dark hall ! No skipping three steps at 
a time up the stairs pursued by imaginary hands 
that would grip at her ankles ! She faced the 
darkness with wide-open eyes, instead of feeling 
her way with lids squeezed down as had been her 
custom ; and when eyes seemed to look back at 
her from the darkness, her boyhood laughed at 
her girlhood, and she did not quicken her pace. 
But — Mollie was glad to step into the room where 
the light burned. Her mother had gone to bed 
early with one of her tired-out headaches, and she 
only half woke to see that her little girl was safely 
in. Mollie kissed her softly (for boys may kiss 
their mothers softly) and took the lamp into the 
little room beyond, where she always slept. 

The first thing that she did was to look in the 
glass. What a girlish little face it was ! How 
foolishly its dimples came and went with its smiles ! 
In what an effeminate manner the hair crinkled 
above it, and then went rambling off into half a 
yard of stylish disorder ! Mollie lifted the hair in 


mollie's boyhood. 

( November, 

her hand and surveyed it thoughtfully. Then she 
took a thoughtful survey of the scissors in her 
work-basket. Then she reached them. She al- 
lowed herself a moment of conscientious reflection ; 
then the boy's naughty spirit crept down through 
her fingers and set the scissors flying, and the deed 
was done. 

It was not easy to satisfy her mother's amaze- 
ment and vexation in the morning ; but Mollie 
stumbled through it and went to school. There 
opportunities were few. She coaxed her teacher 
to let her study book-keeping, and took one dis- 
agreeable lesson in its first principles ; but she 
accomplished nothing else that day except the put- 
ting of a general check upon weak-minded inclina- 
tions to be frolicsome. 

But that evening there was a fair sky, one of the 
soft, deep skies that make imaginative little girls' 
brains dizzy ; and Mollie tramped down the gravel 
path to the gate and leaned over ; then she soon 
nestled her head in her arms and looked up and 
lost herself. Boyhood w-as far from her dreamy 
fancies, when they were scattered by a tweak at 
one of her cropped locks. 

" What does this mean ? " asked the voice of the 
neighbor over the fence. "How came it to be 
done without my leave ? " 

" Don't I look manly, Mr. John? " said Mollie. 

" What does it mean ?" said he, severely. 

" That would be telling," said Moilie. 

" I intend that you shall tell me," said he. 

" Oh, it 's a secret ! " said Mollie. 

" All the better ; we '11 keep it together. Tell it." 

He was a grown-up man, nearer thirty than 
twenty years old, who stooped to take an interest 
in his neighbor's little girl, and flattered himself 
that he was bringing her up in the way she should 
go. It amused him in his leisure moments to try 
the experiment of rearing a girl to be as unlike as 
possible the girl of the period. 

From mere force of habit, Mollie opened her 
mouth and poured out her heart to him. He 
seemed quite impressed by the solemn confession. 
Mollie studied his face closely while she was speak- 
ing, and saw nothing but a grave and earnest in- 
terest in her project. She could not see deep 
enough to discover the indignation that was fuming 
over the loss of her pretty locks, and the purpose 
that was brewing to cure her of her folly. 

" Don't have any half-way work about it, Mollie," 
said Mr. John. " Do the thing thoroughly, if you 
undertake it." "Oh yes, indeed !" said Mollie. 

"If you should need an occasional reminder, I 
will try and help you,'' said he; "for of course 
it wont do to be off guard at all. But now get 
your hat, and we '11 go for some ice-cream. I 
know you need cooling off this warm evening." 

Mollie skipped about to run toward the house. 

'■ Be careful of your steps," he called; and she 
tramped as boyishly as she could. 

" No, don't take hold of my hand," as she came 
back and slipped her fingers in his. " Put your 
hands in your pockets." 

" I 've only one pocket," she answered meekly, 
putting her right hand in it. 

"Difficulties at once, are n't there?" said Mr. 
John. " Your clothes want reforming, you see. 
You'll have to put on Bloomers." 

"Oh! "said Mollie. 

" I 'm afraid you 're not very much in earnest," 
he said. "You surely are not frightened by a 
trifle like that?" Mollie looked up imploringly. 

"Must I?" she asked. 

" Well," he answered, her earnestness making 
him fear that she would actually appear publicly in 
masculine array, " I don't know that it is necessary 
at present. A few days wont matter ; and, after a 
while, it will seem to you the natural way to dress." 

He was so faithful that evening in reminding her 
of her short-comings that their tete-a-tete over the 
little table in the ice-cream saloon, which usually 
was so cosey and delightful, was quite spoiled. She 
went to sleep regretting that she had taken Mr. 
John into her confidence and made it necessary for 
him to treat her as a boy. 

She did not see him again for several days : and 
meanwhile she had taken her lessons in book- 
keeping, practiced the writing hours on heavy mas- 
culine strokes, learned to walk without dancing 
little whirligigs on her tiptoes every other minute, 
and made some progress in the art of whistling. 
She felt that she had done much to earn his com- 
mendation, and was anxious for a meeting. 

On the way home from school, one afternoon, 
she saw his sister's baby at the window — the round- 
est, fattest, whitest and sweetest of all the babies 
that had taken up an abode in Mollie's heart, where 
babies innumerable w-ere enshrined. There it was, 
being danced in somebody's hands before the win- 
dow, and reaching out its ten dear little fingers to 
beckon her in. 

She was quickly in, regardless of her gait. In a 
moment from the time the tempting vision ap- 
peared she was cuddling it in her arms, glibly talk- 
ing the nonsense that it loved to hear, and kissing 
and petting it to her heart's content. She was so 
absorbed that she did not hear Mr. John come in ; 
and he was close by her when she looked up and 
saw his face — not the genial, welcoming look she 
had been in the habit of meeting since he became 
her friend, but one of grave disapproval. 

" I am ashamed of you, Mollie," he said. " Boys 
of your age don't pet babies in that way." 

Mollie dropped it — she hardly knew whether on 



the floor or the stove — and flew. When she got 
home, she ran into the little back room that used 
to be her play-room. She was all ready for a good 
cry, and she closed the door. Then she thought, 
what if Mr. John were to see her crying like a girl- 
baby ! — and she marched to the window, and 
through the dimness in her eyes tried to see some- 
thing cheering. Her nature was very social, and 
her need of companionship great at that moment; 
so she turned to the friend who had been brother, 
sister and child to her through most of her little 
girlhood — her big doll Helena, who sat in a chair 
in the corner beholding her agitation with fixed, 
compassionless gaze. 

"Come here, you dear," said Mollie, folding her 
tenderly in her arms and finding comfort in the 
contact of her cold china cheek. She had loved 
her so long that she had given her a soul ; and to 
Mollie's heart the doll was as fit for loving as if she 
had had breath and speech. She did not play with 
her any longer, but Helena was still her dear old 
friend — an almost human confidant and crony. 

As she held her closely, suddenly she thought of 
Mr. John. If he had objected to the petting of 
babies, what would he say to dolls ? She gave her 
a frantic kiss, put her away, and turned her back 
on her to reflect ; for she did not mean to shirk the 
most disagreeable reflections in the new line of duty 
she had chosen to follow. 

If it had really been a human friend whose des- 
tinies Mollie considered, she could not have been 
more serious ; and if it had been a human friend 
whom she at last decided must be put far from her, 
she could hardly have suffered severer heart-pangs. 
But she would have no compromising with inclina- 
tion in this matter. She would be brave and strong, 
as it became her mother's son to be. So to the 
lowest depths of the deepest trunk in the garret 
she mentally consigned Helena. There, beyond 
the reach of her loving eyes and arms, she should 
lie in banishment until her heart became callous. 

But there was something so repulsive in the idea 
of smothering human Helena under layers of old 
garments, that Mollie finally thought of a better 
way. Helena should no longer be Helena, dear to 
her heart in all her little feminine adornings and 
her sympathetic, tender traits of character. She 
should undergo a change, a radical reform. She, 
too, should become a boy, and her name should 
be Thomas. Thenceforth Mollie spent her leisure 
moments in manufacturing garments suitable for 
the change ; and at last she saw a boy-doll, in 
roundabout and pantaloons, occupying the chair 
where Helena had so long sat in dainty dresses. 
The sight was a perpetual offense to her eyes ; but 
she bore it bravely, keeping in store for herself a 
reward of merit in Mr. John's approval. She did 

not fail to mention to him Helena's reform the 
next time they met, which was one morning before 
breakfast. She was sweeping the front steps when 
he came and leaned over the fence and called her. 

She shouldered the broom, as she had seen men 
shoulder implements of labor, — hoes, rakes, etc., — 
and tramped toward him. Mr. John watched her, 
with an expression of disgust under his mustache. 

" Well, Bob," he said, " I 'm glad to see you out 
so early. Form good habits before you 're grown, 
and when you come to manhood you '11 make money 
by it. Where are your Bloomers to-day ? It is n't 
possible your mind 's not made up to them yet ?" 

There was something in Mr. John's tone and 
manner which did not seem quite courteous to 
Mollie ; but she had hardly hung her head when 
he began to talk in his old half-fatherly, half- 
brotherly fashion ; and then, in the lively conversa- 
tion, she found a chance to introduce Thomas. 
Mr. John gave her a long, solemn, searching look. 

" Mollie," he said, " I am very much afraid you 
will never succeed as a boy. It seems to me that 
even an ordinarily masculine girl of your age would 
have been clear-headed enough to see the absurdity 
of your little farce. It is nothing but a farce, mere 
babyishness. You have been playing with yourself 
and with your doll. No boy could have done it." 

There was a short pause ; then Mollie's voice 
piped out into a humble question as to what course 
a boy would have pursued in the matter. 

"Why, that is clear enough," said Mr. John. 
" If you want to do what a boy would do, dispose 
of the doll on the shortest notice. Get it out of 
your sight and mind as soon as possible, and then 
never give it any more thought than you 'd give 
the rattle you used to shake when you were a baby, 
or the rubber ring you cut your teeth on." 

Could he be made to understand the immense 
difference between Helena and other toys ? Could 
any words explain to him about the soul that had 
grown out of Mollie's love into the cloth and saw- 
dust body ? Mollie looked up to catch a sympa- 
thetic expression that should help her to tell him ; 
but she did not find it. 

" You don't understand," she said desperately. 

"No ?" said he. 

" Mr. John," said Mollie, not looking him in the 
eye, " when you have a doll as long as I have had 
Helena, it is only natural that she should seem to 
you like a live person. If I did n't play with her at 
all, she 'd seem real to me, and I should n't like to 
have her go away any more than I would mother." 

" Which tells the secret that you have some sort 
of human fondness for the lifeless bundle of rags," 
said Mr. John, " and proves what I feared, that you 
are a very weak-minded little girl, Mollie." 

" You wont believe in me at all," said Mollie. 



| November, 

"You wont think I am doing my best, and that I 
ever succeed. You are not like you used to be." 

"That naturally follows your being different," 
said Mr. John. "Of course, we can't have the 
same feelings toward each other now as when 
you were contented to be a little girl and to let me 
treat you as one. I 'm sorry you don't find me as 
agreeable as before, Mollie ; but you must acknowl- 
edge that I am acting as a friend in doing all that I 
can to help you in your dear project." 

" It is n't dear ! " burst forth Mollie, indignantly. 
" I hate it ! — but I '11 never give it up ! " 

" Of course not," Mr. John said. " Then I pre- 
sume you are all ready to part with Helena." 

" I '11 go and get her," said Mollie. 

No one saw the parting in the play-room. It 
was quickly over, and she was back by the fence. 

"Give her to Bessie," said Mollie, putting Hel- 
ena and her wardrobe into Mr. John's arms. Bessie 
was one of his many nieces. 

"To Bessie!" said he. "Where you can feel 
that she is away on a visit ; where you know that 
she will be petted and cared for ; where you can 
see her occasionally. If you are sincere in this 
matter, Mollie, send her off where you can no longer 
care to think of her. Our ash-man would be very 
glad to carry her home to his little girls." 

Mollie's hands made a wild dive toward Helena 
as a vision of the little grimy man who crept into 
their areas for ashes rose before her. 

"Decide now," said Mr. John. "Take your 
doll and be Mollie Kelly again, or be a boy and 
give her to the ash-man's children without a pang." 

Mollie hung her head. There was color coming 
and going in her cheeks, her fingers trembled, — 
how they longed to snatch Helena ! — and her mind 
was full of indecision. Mr. John watched her 
closely, and he thought he saw the tide turning in 
favor of her girlhood. He held the doll nearer that 
it might tempt her fingers ; but, on the instant, she 
turned and ran away. He tucked Helena under 
his coat and carried her upstairs and locked her in 
a drawer, there to abide until Mollie should want 
her again. 

That was a gloomy day to Mollie. She was out 
of humor with her boyhood She was ashamed of 
herself one moment for bewailing Helena, and 
furious the next with Mr. John and the ash-man. 
She felt cross and discouraged, and was glad when 
the darkness came, and she could go to bed and 
sleep. But the next morning she was in no 
cheerier, braver frame of mind ; and she walked 
home at noon, considering plain sewing versus 
book-keeping as a means of subsistence. Mr. John 
would have rejoiced if he could have seen his "little 
leaven " working. 

" The gutters on the roof are full of leaves, 

Mollie," said her mother as she came in. "Stop 
on your way back to school and send Michael to 
clean them out. I think we are going to have rain, 
and we don't want them washed into the pipes." 

" How much will he charge, mother?" 

" About fifty cents." 

" That fifty cents shall buy something for you," 
said Mollie to herself. " The boy of the family 
shall clean the roof." 

There was just enough recklessness in her mood 
to make her rather enjoy than fear the prospect. 
She left her mother getting dinner, and took a 
broom and escaped up the garret stairs and through 
the scuttle. The roof did not slope steeply, and 
she let herself down with an easy slide to the iear 
eaves. She rested her feet on the edge of the 
house and swept as far as her arms would reach 
east and west. Then she shifted her position and 
swept again until the whole length was clean. 

She heard her mother calling her to dinner, but 
she had the front gutter yet to sweep, and, climb- 
ing up, went down on the other side. There was 
a thought which gave zest to her work on that 
side, — Mr. John would be coming home that way 
to dinner and would see her. Besides, other people 
would see her, and no passer-by should say that 
she did not do her work as thoroughly and fearlessly 
as any boy. She had taken for granted that Mr. 
John's eyes would be drawn upward ; but when he 
had walked almost by, looking straight ahead, she 
sent him a shrill call. He looked at the windows, 
around the yard, and even as far up as the trees. 

"On the roof," screamed Mollie, and in her 
excitement she forgot her situation and lost her 
balance and slipped, — not far, but one foot went 
out beyond the eaves into the air. The other one 
rallied to the rescue, supported her whole weight, 
and helped her to regain her position. Danger was 
over in a moment, but it had been danger of death, 
and Mollie's heart beat wildly, and a faintness came 
over her. Still through it all she was able to see 
Mr. John's approving smile as he lifted his hat and 
waved it gayly in applause. 

"He wouldn't care if I had fallen and been killed," 
thought Mollie, as she recovered herself. "All he 
wants is to have me succeed in being a horrid boy. 
I 've a mind to give it up just to spite him." 

She could not know — so successfully had he con- 
cealed his agitation under that bland smile — how 
faint he, too, had been in the moment of her 
danger, nor how fast his heart was still beating as 
he walked on, nor what resolves he was forming to 
put a speedy end to her boyhood. 

He stopped on his way back from dinner to tell 
her that he had engaged to take a party of his 
nephews and nieces nutting that afternoon, and 
that he wanted her to come. 



I I 

" It will be so nice to have a big boy on hand, 
Mollie," said Mr. John, "especially one that is n't 
afraid of heights. We may have some to climb." 

Not a word about her danger and his gladness 
for her safety, and she knew he had seen her narrow 
-scape. But she felt so gay over memories of Mr. 
John's nutting parties, and the prospect of another, 
that she forgave him all, and prepared to be thor- 
oughly happy that afternoon. 

School closed at three o'clock, and Mollie flew 
to Mr. John's yard, where they were all waiting. 
She came dancing by the gate, her cheeks rosy, 


her eyes shining, — just her old self, as she had 
been in the days when no boyhood loomed like an 
ugly shadow between her and Mr. John. He saw 
it all, and charged himself to be stony. So he 
gave no better response to her impulsive greeting 
than he would have given an ordinary boy. Her 
spirits fell a degree ; but with those happy children 
bobbing around her, expecting her to be the hap- 
piest of all, they could do nothing but rise again. 

Mr. John did not offer to lift her over fences as 
he lifted the other girls ; he even called on her to 
help the little ones over. He held back branches 
that came across other girls' paths ; he let her clear 
her own way. He carried Kittie and Bessie, and 

Esther and Dora, over the brook ; he let her splash 
across on the stones with the boys. He gallantly 
made cups and gave the other girls to drink ; he 
suggested to Mollie that she should scoop the water 
up in her hand, as he was doing for his own use. 

She wished many a time before they came to the 
walnut-trees that she had staid at home. She 
wished her boyhood's days were over, or had never 
been. She could n't bear Mr. John, and all the chil- 
dren noticed that she moped, and asked her why. 

Well, there were no nuts when they got there. 
Mr. John had known there would n't be. They 
should have come much 
earlier in the day to find 
these trees full, and the 
next trees were too far 
away. So they concluded 
to turn their nutting par- 
ty into a picnic. They 
had a basket of provis- 
ions, and Mr. John sent 
the big boys into the 
next lot to get wood for 
a fire. Then came his 
grand opportunity for 
crushing Mollie. He 
called her, and she ran 
to him gladly, ready to 
take him back to her 
favor on his own terms. 

" Please, go and help 
the boys bring wood for 
our fire," he said. " They 
have all gone but you." 

She went, but not with- 
out giving him a look 
that actually made him 
blush for his rudeness. 
She went with the aspect 
of a tragedy queen, and 
by the time she overtook 
the boys she had calmly 
made up her mind to two 
things: never, never again to be friends with Mr. 
John, and to give up her boyhood just to spite him. 
But one more temptation still held her. There 
was a little cliff over in that next lot, stony and 
steep, and high enough to make a leap which it 
was some credit to a boy to achieve. The boys 
stood on the edge, measuring the distance with 
experienced eyes and preparing to go over. 

Now Mollie as a girl had always been a very 
good jumper, so she resolved at once to try the 
leap, and have the report of her valiant deed car- 
ried back to Mr. John. She joined the boys, and 
seeing that one after another went down safely, 
she soon asked for a turn. She was gravely remon- 




strated with. She was overwhelmed with sage 
masculine advice, but she swept her way clear and 
jumped — with all the recklessness of her reckless 
mood. She knew well enough the backward in- 
clination proper for her head, what the relative 
positions of her knees and chin should be, and if 
she had taken the least forethought might have 
redeemed the declining reputation of her boyhood. 
The knowledge flashed across her in her swift 
descent that her spine had not preserved the 
proper perpendicular, and that she was coming 
down wrong. Chin and knees knocked together 
as she fell in a heap on the grass below. 

It was a caving in of skull, she thought, that 
made that horrible crashing pain and that sent 
lightning dancing on a black background before 
her eyes, then blinded her quite. Nothing but a 
general chaos of skull and brain could make such 
terrible pain. She wondered if her friends would 
be able to recognize one dear lineament in the 
jumble of her features. She thought what a sad 
fate it was to die young. She wondered how Mr. 
John would feel now ! and then she found that 
light dawned upon her and that she had an eye 
open. In a moment she discovered that the sense 
of hearing, too, had not abandoned her; for the 
boys had reached her by this time, and she heard 
Mr. John's nephew, John, saying : 

" She 's knocked her teeth through her lip, that 's 
all. I did it once when I jumped wrong and hit 
my chin on my knee. She '11 soon be all right." 

Two eyes open now, and she saw a bloody frock, 
and what seemed an army of boys ; for there was 
something still the matter with her vision which 
caused it to multiply. 

" Boys, boys, nothing but boys ! " thought Mol- 
lie, dropping her lids. " Where did they all come 
from, I wonder? There must be a thousand. I 
never want to see another. I would n't be one for 
the world. I wish they 'd go away." 

Then she felt some one bathing her face gently, 
and when the water had refreshed her, she vent- 
ured another peep at the world. Boys around 
her still ; but she could see now that their number 
was only four, and the faces those of friends. 

" Cheer up, Mollie," said John, jr. " You got a 
hard knock, but you 're coming on. Bob 's gone for 
the phaeton, and we '11 have you home in no time." 

They propped her up against a tree, and con- 
tinued to bathe her head with water from Jerry's 
felt hat, filled at the little brook close by. 

All this while Mr. John had been accounting for 
their absence by supposing that Mollie was taking 
some sort of revenge on him, and he would permit 
none of the girls to go in search of the wanderers. 

Not until Bob and the phaeton appeared did news 
of Mollie's valiant deed reach him. Then he went 
to her at once, and saw her pale and bloody. 

But to display weakness now might be to lose all, 
reflected Mr. John; so he kept back the words of 
sympathy that were on his lips as he leaned down 
and offered to carry her to the phaeton. 

" I prefer to walk, thank you," said Mollie, her 
pride giving her strength to rise and take the arm 
which John, jr., stood ready to offer. However, 
Mr. John forcibly made an exchange, and, in spite 
of Mollie, half led and half carried her to the road. 

" Don't be discouraged, Mollie," he said as he 
put her in, while Bob was busy at the halter. 
" The next time you '11 jump like a man." 

"That nonsense is all over, thank you," said 
Mollie, very loftily, though not very clearly, because 
of her swollen lips. " Think what you please of 
me," she mumbled. '" It is all ended ; and it might 
have ended sooner, too, if I 'd taken better advice." 

" With better advice it never would have ended, 
you contrary little minx," said Mr. John to himself 
as she drove away. 

The doctor came and Mollie was ordered to bed ; 
but even his opiate did not make her sleep. It was 
soothing, indeed, to lie there in the twilight with 
her hand in her mother's, and feel that she was her 
little girl entirely, no more to be her boy while life 
should last. And pleasant visions of a Gothic 
school-house, where she should some day be mis- 
tress of sweet, rosy-cheeked children, rose grace- 
fully on the ruins of her manly aspirations. 

By and by the bell rang, and her mother brought 
a lamp, and a package which Mollie sat up and 
opened. There, with a note pinned on the left leg 
of her trousers and a box of Mollie's best-beloved 
candies clasped on her jacket, lay Helena. 

" I have never been to the ash-man's house, 
Mother Mollie," said the note. " I have been 
visiting Mr. John's cuffs and collars in the bureau- 
drawer. I want my girls' clothes on to-morrow. I 
claim it as my right. We all have our rights. 
Put me in dresses and take me home to the play- 
room. You have your rights too, and I would n't 
let any one tell me that I had n't a right to be a 
girl. It is my opinion that if you had been meant 
for a boy you would have been made one. Come, 
mother, cuddle me up, and let 's go to sleep and 
have sweet dreams, and a blithe waking to girlhood 
in the morning, when we will make up with Mr. 
John ; for he sends these chocolate-creams to let 
you know that he is sorry." 

" So we will, dear," said Mollie, tucking Helena's 
head under her chin. " You were always wiser 
than your mother, child." 




By Sarah Coan. 


" Why, it is n't on the top of a mountain at all ! 
What a humbug my geography must have been ! " 

So wrote a little fellow to a young friend in 

He was right. It is n't on the top of a mountain, 
though the geographies do say, " A volcano is a 
mountain sending forth fire, smoke and lava," and 
give the picture of a mountain smoking at the top. 

This volcano is nothing of the kind ; but is a 
hideous, yawning black pit at the bottom of a 
mountain, and big enough to stow away a large city. 

Of course you want to know, first, where this 
wonder is. Get out the map of the Western 
Hemisphere, put your finger on any of the lines 
running north and south, through North America, 
and called meridians ; follow it south until you 

come to the Tropic of Cancer, running east and 
west; then ''left-about-face!" and, following the 
tropic, sail out into the calm Pacific. After a 
voyage of about two thousand miles, you '11 run 
ashore on one of a group of islands marked Sand- 
wich. We will call them Hawaiian, for that is 
their true name. Not one of the brown, native 
inhabitants would call them " Sandwich." An 
English sailor gave them that name, out of com- 
pliment to a certain Lord Sandwich. 

On the largest of these islands, Hawaii — pro- 
nounced "Ha-y-e" — is the volcano, Kilauea, the 
largest volcano in the world. 

We have seen it a great many times, and that 
you may see it as clearly as possible, you shall 
have a letter from the very spot. The letter reads : 




" Here we are, a large party of us, looking into 
Kilauea, which is nine miles in circumference, and 
a thousand feet below us — a pit about seven times 
as deep as Niagara Falls are high. We came to- 
day, on horseback, from Hilo, a ride of thirty miles. 
Hilo is a beautiful sea-shore village, the largest 
on the island of Hawaii, and from it all visitors to 
Kilauea make their start. 

" The road over which we came is nothing but a 
bridle-path, and a very rough one at that, travers- 
ing miles and miles of old lava flows. We had 
almost ridden to the crater's brink before we dis- 
covered, in the dim twilight, the awful abyss. 

" Before us is the immense pit which, in the 
day-time, shows only a floor of black lava, looking 
as smooth as satin; and, miles away, rising out of 
this floor, are a few slender columns of smoke. 

"At night, everything is changed; and you 
can't conceive of the lurid, demoniacal effect. 
Each slender column of smoke becomes a pillar of 
fire that rolls upward, throbbing as it moves, and 
spreads itself out above the crater like an immense 
canopy, all ablaze. 

" Ships a hundred miles from land see the 
glow, and we here, on the precipice above, can 
read ordinary print by its lurid light. 

" No wonder the natives worshiped the vol- 
cano. They thought it the home of a goddess, 
whom they named Pele, and in times of unusual 
activity believed her to be very angry with them. 
Then they came in long processions, from the sea- 
shore villages, bringing pigs, dogs, fowls, and some- 
times human beings, for sacrifice. These they threw 
into the crater, to appease her wrath. 

"A small berry, called the ohelo, grows on the 
banks of the pit, and of these the natives never 
dared to eat until Pele .had first had her share. 
Very polite, were they not ? And if ever they for- 
got their manners, I dare say she gave them a 
shaking up by an earthquake, as a reminder. 

" Sandal-wood and strawberries grow all about 
here — and fleas, too ! wicked fleas, that bite vora- 
ciously, to keep themselves warm, I think, for here, 
so far from Pele's hearth, it is cold, and we sit by 
a log fire of our own. 

"The day after our arrival we went into the 
crater, starting immediately after an early break- 
fast. There is but one entrance, a narrow ledge, 
formed by the gradual crumbling and falling in of 
the precipice. Along this ledge we slipped and 
scrambled, making the descent on foot — for no rid- 
den animal has ever been able to descend the trail. 
Holding on to bushes and snags when the path 
was dangerously steep, we finally landed beiow on 
the black satin floor of lava. 

" Satin ! What had looked so smooth and tempt- 
ing from a thousand feet above, turned out to be a 

surface more troubled and uneven than the ocean's 
in the most violent storm. And that tiny thread 
of smoke, toward which our faces were set, lay 
three .miles distant — three miles that were worse 
than nine on an ordinary road. 

" How we worked that passage ! up hill and down 
hill, over hard pointed lava that cut through our 
shoes like knife blades ; over light, crumbled lava, 
into which we sank up to our knees ; over hills of 
lava that were, themselves, covered with smaller 
hills ; into ravines and over steam-cracks, some of 
which we could jump with the aid of our long 
poles, and some of which we had to find our way 
around; steam-cracks whose depths we could not 
see, and into which we thrust our walking-sticks, 
drawing them out charred black or aflame ; over 
lava so hot that we ran as rapidly and lightly as 
possible, to prevent our shoes being scorched. 
Three hours of this kind of work for the three 
miles, and Halt-maii-mau, or ' House of Everlast- 
ing Fire,' lay spitting and moaning at our feet ! 

"A lake of boiling lava is what the column of 
smoke marked out to us, — a pit within a pit, — a 
lake of raging lava fifty feet below us, of which you 
have here the picture taken ' from life.' 

" It was so hot and suffocating on the brink of this 
lake that we cut eye-holes in our pocket-handker- 
chiefs and wore them as masks. Even then we had 
to run back every few moments for a breath of 
fresher air, though we were on the windward side 
of the lake. The gases on the leeward side would 
suffocate one instantly. Oh. the glory ! This 
Hale-mau-mau, whose fire never goes out, is a 
huge lake of liquid lava, heaving with groans and 
thunderings that cannot be described. Around its 
edge, as you see in the picture, the red lava was 
spouting furiously. Now and then the center of 
the lake cooled over, forming a thin crust of black 
lava, which, suddenly cracking in a hundred direc- 
tions, let the blood-red fluid ooze up through the 
seams, looking like fiery snakes. 

" Look at the picture, and imagine these enormous 
slabs of cooled lava slowly raising themselves on 
end, as if alive, and with a stately motion plunging 
beneath the sea of fire, with an indescribable roar. 

"For three hours we gazed, spell-bound, though 
it seemed but a few moments : we were chained to 
the spot, as is every one else who visits Kilauea. 

"The wind, as the jets rose in air, spun the 
molten drops of lava into fine threads, which the 
natives call Pele's hair, and very like hair it is. 

"All this time, under our feet were rumblings 
and explosions that made us start and run now 
and then, for fear of being blown up ; coming back 
again after each fright, unwilling to leave the spot. 

"Occasionally, the embankment of the lake 
cracked off and fell in, being immediately devoured 




by the hungry flood. These ledges around Halc- 
mau-mau are very dangerous to stand upon. A 
whole family came near losing their lives on one. 
A loud report beneath their feet and a sudden 
trembling of the crust made them run for life ; and 
hardly had they jumped the fissure that separated 
the ledge on which they were standing from more 
solid footing — separated life from death — than crash 
went the ledge into the boiling lake ! 

" Sometimes the lake boils over, like a pot of 
molasses, and then you can dip up the liquid lava 
with a long pole. You get quite a lump of it. and 
by quickly rolling it on the ground mold a cylin- 
der the size of the end of the pole, and about six 
inches long. Or you can drop a coin into the lava 
to be imprisoned as it cools. 

" A foreigner once imbedded a silver dollar in 
the hot lava, and gave the specimen to a native; 
but he immediately threw it on the ground, break- 
ing the lava, of course, and liberating the dollar, 
which he pocketed, exclaiming : ' Volcano plenty 
enough, but me not get dollar every day.' 

" One of our party collected lava specimens from 
around Hale-mau-mau, and tied them up in her 
pocket-handkerchief. Imagine her astonishment 
on finding, later, they had burned through the 
linen, and one by one dropped out. 

"Terrible as old Pele is, she makes herself use- 
ful, and is an excellent cook. She keeps a great 
many ovens heated for the use of her guests, and 
no two at the same temperature, so that you may 

select one of any heat you wish. In these ovens 
(steam-cracks) she boils tea, coffee and eggs; or 
cooks omelets and meats. You wrap the beef or 
chicken, or whatever meat you may wish to cook, 
in leaves, and lay it in the steam-crack. Soon it is 
thoroughly cooked, and deliciously, too. 

"She also keeps a tub of warm water always 
ready for bathers. 

" She does n't mean to be laughed at, though, 
for doing this kind of work, and doing it in an 
original kind of way. After she has given you one 
or two sound shakings, which she generally does, 
you '11 have great respect for the old lady, and feel 
quite like taking off your hat to her. With the 
shakings and the thunderings under-foot, and 
now and then the opening of a long steam-crack, 
she keeps her visitors quite in awe of 'her powers, 
though she is probably several hundred years old. 

" Not far from the little hut where we sleep, close 
to the precipice, is Pele's great laboratory, where 
she makes sulphur. We wear our straw hats to the 
sulphur banks, and she bleaches them for us. 

" Well, this is a strange, strange land, old Pele 
being only one of its many curiosities. 

" f" only hope you may all see the active old god- 
dess before she dies. She has n't finished her 
work yet. Once in a while she runs down to the 
shore, to bathe and look at the' Pacific Ocean, and 
when there she generally gives a new cape to 
Hawaii by running out into the sea." 

Majestic old Pele ! Long may she live ! 


" I 'LL make it skip !" 
Cried Charley, seizing a bit of stone. 

And, in a trice, from our Charley's hand, 
With scarce a dip, 
Over the water it danced alone, 

While we were watching it from the land — 
Skip ! skip ! skip ! 

" I '11 make it skip ! " 
Now, somehow, that is our Charley's way : 
He takes little troubles that vex one so, 
Not worth a flip. 
And makes them seem to frolic and play 
Just by his way of making them go 
Skip ! skip ! skip ! 




By A. E. W. 

I HAVE a little brother, 

And his name is Little Lewy ; 
His starry eyes are bright as flowers 

And they are twice as dewy. 
Sometimes the dew o'erflows them, 

And trickles down his cheeks ; 
And then he cries so hard, you 'd think 

He would n't stop for weeks. 
Then my other little brother, 

A bough of willow bringing, 
Drives all the dew-drops far away, 

By waving it and singing : 

Sends all the naughty frowns away, 
By waving it and singing : 

A, B, C, D, E, F, G; 

How many wrinkles are there ? One, two, three ! 

We '11 send them all off quickly, or they '11 

climb up to your hair, 
And then to-morrow morning you '11 have lots 

of tangles there." 

" One, two, free, fo', five, six, seven tears ! 
You '11 be as old as farver in forty sousand years. 
Drate big men don't have tears, so let me 

wipe 'em dry ; 
In forty sousand years from now you'll never, 
never cry. " 

This other little brother, 

Whose name is Little Bert, 
Frowns in a dreadful manner 

Whenever he is hurt ; 
The wrinkles right above his nose 

Look like the letter M, 
He keeps them there so long, he must 

Be very fond of them. 
Then my little brother Lewy, 

The branch of willow bringing, 

Sometimes our little Lewy 
Loses all his pretty smiles ; 




He says they 're very far away ; 

At least a hundred miles. 
He looks as sober as a judge, 

As stately as a king, 
As solemn as a parson and 

As still as anything. 
And then our little Bertie, 

The witching willow bringing, 
Sends all the smiles safe home again, 

By waving it and singing : 

I want to buy a smile, sir, if you have some 

about ; 
I '11 draw this leaf across your lips, and that 

will bring them out. 
And if you cannot spare me one, just let me 

take a half. 
Oh, here they come and there they come, and 

now we '11 have a laugh." 

On every " morrow morning," 

This funny little Bertie 
Does n't want to have his face washed 

Because it don't feel dirty ; 
He runs half-dressed 'way out-of-doors, 

Safe hidden from our view ; 
We search and call, hunt up and down. 

And don't know what to do, 
Until we see our little Lu 

The wand of willow bringing, 

And leading Bertie back to us, 
While all the time he's singing: 

Do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, si. 

You look like a very small heathen Chinee. 
Get the sleep all washed off and hang it up to dry, 
And then you '11 look as fresh as if you 'd just 
come from the sky." 

When all the stars are shining, 

Each little sleepy-head 
Is lying in a funny bunch 

Within the little bed. 
Their eyes are so wide open, 

They stay awake so long, 
They 're calling me to tell to them 

A story or a song. 
So up the stairs again I come, 

The magic willow bringing, 
And wave it here and wave it there, 

While o'er and o'er I'm singing: 

" Sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep ; 
Sailing away on the dreamy deep ; 
Sister to watch you and angels to keep ; 
Sailing away and away and away, 

Away on the d-r-e-a-m-y deep ; 

Sleep, sleep, s-1-e-e-p, sleep." 

Vol. V. 





By Louise Stockton. 

"Do tell me one more story; just one more!" 
said the little boy. 

It certainly was getting late. The fire lighted 
the room, the shadows danced in the corners. 
Down in the kitchen they were hurrying with the 
dinner, and in a moment nurse would come in to 
take the boy to bed. But all this made him want 
to stay. He was very comfortable in his mamma's 
lap, and he was in no haste to go upstairs to Mag- 
gie and the nursery. 

Then his mamma kissed him right on the tip of 
his little nose, and she said : 

" But you must go to bed sometime." 

" Please, mamma dear," he said, pushing his 

Prince Limberlocks climbed up a cherry-tree into 
the giant's room. That is the story / like ! " 

"And it must be the 'amen story' to-night. 
Well : Once upon a time the Princess Thistleblos- 
som stood on one foot, while " 

"No, no," interrupted The Story, "you need 
not tell me / Tell some other story. I am tired 
of being said over and over. Every night, as soon 
as your bed-time comes, and you are so sleepy that 
you don't want to go to bed, you ask for me, and I 
have to be told. I am sick of it, and I want to 

"But I want you," said the boy. " I like you 
best of all my stories. I like that part where the 



curly head almost under her arm, "just one little 

" Just one ! You can choose it, but mind, a little 
one ! " 

" You know what one I want. Of course about 
the giant Tancankeroareous, and how he stole the 
slipper of the princess for a snuff-box, and how the 

giant comes in and calls out ' Porter ! ' in such a 
loud voice that the gate shakes all the bolts loose." 
"I suppose you do like it," said The Story; 
" anybody would. I am a very good story, and very 
fit to be told last, although I cannot see why that 
is any reason for calling me the ' amen story.' That 
is foolish, / think ! But at any rate, that is no 

1 877] 



reason for telling me every night. Let your 
mamma tell you Cock Robin, or Jack the Giant- 
Killer. They are plenty good enough." ■ 

" I don't want them," said the little boy, begin- 
ning to cry ; "I want you ! I wont go to sleep all 
night if mamma don't tell you." 

" / don't care ! " replied The Story ; " you 

needn't cry for me. I 've made up my mind. You 
wont hear me to-night. That 's as sure as your 
name is Paul." 

And it was just as The Story said. There was 
no use in the boy's crying, for off went The Story, 
and it was not told that night ; but it is my private 
opinion that the boy did go to sleep after all. 

By Hope Ledyard. 

anta Claus!" exclaimed 
Ned, half mockingly. 

"Yes," insisted Mamie, 
" what 's he going to bring 
you, Ned?" 

" I don't know, and I 
don't care much," he an- 
swered, " for there 
is n't any Santa 
" "Why, Ned!" 
cried Mamie, in as- 
tonishment. "Even 
my big brother 
Harry believes in 
Santa Claus. He 's 
coming home from 
school to-night, and 
we're going to hang 
up our stockings." 

"Pshaw!" said 
Ned, " I must go 
home. Good-bye." 
Merry little Ma- 
mie stood in amaze- 
ment, and theft ran 
in-doors to her mother with her perplexity. 

" Why, mother ! " she cried, " Ned Huntley said 
there was n't any Santa Claus — and he was real 
cross about it, too." 

"Well, Mamie," said her mother, " I would n't 
take any notice of Ned's being cross about Christ- 
mas-time. The Huntleys don't keep Christmas." 
"Don't keep Christmas!" exclaimed Mamie, 
astonished beyond measure. 

Seeing that her mother was busy, she took her 
doll, Helena Margaret Constance Victorine, in her 
arms, and talked the matter over with her. 

" What do you think, my dear," said she, 
"they don't keep Christmas at Ned Huntley's 
house ! I don't know just what mother means by 
not keeping it, for you know Santa Claus comes 
down the chimney, and so he can get in during the 
night and leave Christmas there. Oh, yes, but 
they don't keep it. They turn it out, I suppose, 
just like mother told me they acted about the dear 
little baby Savior ; they had n't any room for him, 
and I guess Mrs. Huntley has n't any room to keep 
Christmas in. I wonder what she does with the 
Christmas things Santa Claus brings? I wonder if 
she throws 'em away ? I mean to go and ask 
her;" and putting her child carefully in its cradle, 
Mamie started. 

There was some truth in what Mrs. Gaston had 
told her little daughter ; the Huntleys did not 
keep Christmas in a loving, hearty way. They 
kept it in so far that on this very afternoon 
Mrs. Huntley was busy making the mince pies, 
dressing the turkey, and doing all she could to be 
beforehand with the extra Christmas dinner. Mr. 
Huntley had just stepped into the kitchen for a 
moment to say to his wife, " What have you settled 
on for Ned's Christmas?" 

" I 've bought him a pair of arctics — he needed 
'em ; and if you want to spend more than common, 
you might get him half a dozen handkerchiefs." 

"Well, wife, I was thinking that perhaps" — the 
farmer tried to be particular about his words, for 
Mrs. Huntley did not seem in a very good humor — 
" I was remembering how you used to enjoy giving 
the young ones candies and toys ; so, perhaps " 

"Now, Noah Huntley, I 'm surprised at you! 
Buy candies and toys for a great lumbering boy 
like Ned ? Why, you must be crazy, man ! The 
next thing will be that you '11 want a Christmas- 
tree yourself ! " 




" Well, and it would n't be a bad idea," thought 
the father. " There 's my man, Fritz, he has been 
to the woods and cut a little tree for his children, 
and he seems to get a heap of pleasure out of it. Ah ! 
if only little Polly had lived ! " Strangely enough, 
the wife was thinking the same thing, as she sliced 
and sifted and weighed. " If little Polly had lived 
it would have been different, but we can't throw 
away money on nonsense for Ned." 

A little red cloak flashed by the window, a little 
bright face, just about the age of "our little Polly's," 
peeped in at the door, and Mamie asked, "May I 
come in, Mrs. Huntley ? " 

"Certainly, child. Here 's a fresh cookie. I sup- 
pose you 're full of Christmas over at your house?" 

" Oh, yes, ma'am ! And I 'm so sorry you don't 
keep it. What 's the reason ? " 

" Don't keep it ! Why, we have a regular 
Christmas dinner as sure as the 25th of December 
comes round, and Pa gives me a new dress, or 
something that I need, and we give Ned a suit of 
clothes, or shoes, or something that he needs." 

"Well," said Mamie, "but I like our way best. 
May I tell you how we keep Christmas ?" 

" Talk away. I can listen." 

"Well, you see, a good while before Christmas 
my mother begins to get ready, and I often see her 
hide up something quick when I come in, and then 
she laughs, and I think, ' Oh, yes, something 's 
coming,' and then mother takes me in her lap and 
tells me how Jesus is coming, and how He did 
come. Do you know, Mrs. Huntley?" 

" You can tell me, child ? " 

"You see, He came a long, long time ago as a 
little baby. Mamma says that he began at the 
beginning, so that no little child could say, ' I can't 
be like Jesus, for Jesus never was so little as me.' 
That first birthday of His, there was n't any room 
for Him at the tavern, and when the dear little 
baby Jesus was sleepy, they laid Him right in a 
stable manger, and the shepherds found Him lying 
there. Christmas is His Birthday, and I sup- 
pose they give all the children presents because 
Jesus loved little children, and then Santa Claus — 
Oh, Mrs. Huntley, that 's what I came about, and 
I 'most forgot ! If you don't keep Christmas — I 
mean as we do," she added, as Mrs. Huntley 
frowned, "and if you don't use the things that Santa 
Claus leaves here, can't I come over and get 'em ? 
Only I'd rather Ned should have 'em." 

" Child alive ! How your tongue runs ! Here, 
now, take these cookies home with you. I guess 
Ned 's too busy to play with you." 

" Thank you, ma'am. And you '11 remember 
about Santa Claus ? " said little Mamie, as she 
walked away with her cookies. 

Mrs. Huntley worked on for a few minutes longer, 

and then, leaving her dishes, she went to her own 
room and opened a bureau drawer. There lay a 
bright little dress and pretty white apron, — Polly's 
best things, — the little clothes in which she used to 
look so lovely. There were the last Christmas toys 
the mother had ever bought, — only a little tin bank, 
a paper cornucopia, and a doll; but she remem- 
bered that Christmas so well ! Could it be that it 
was only three years ago ? How Polly had laughed 
and chattered over her stocking ! And Ned, — now 
that she thought about it, — she remembered that 
they bought him a pair of skates that year. He 
had made a great time over those skates, and had 
taken his little sister out to see him try to use them. 
Ned was so loving and gentle in those days. And 
then the mother's heart reproached her. Could 
she blame her boy because he seemed to care so 
little for his parents and his home, when she had 
nursed her grief for the loss of her baby-girl, and 
taken no pains to be bright or cheerful with him ? 
She thought how clearly Mamie had told the story 
of the Savior's birthday. Could her boy, who was 
six years older, do as well ? He went to Sunday- 
school sometimes, but she had never talked with 
him about Jesus — never since God took her Polly. 
And her eyes filled as she shut the drawer. 

Mrs. Huntley went back to the kitchen, but the 
room seemed different to her. Ned brought in 
the milk, and looked at his mother curiously at 
hearing her say, " Thank you, Ned." Wonders 
would never end, Ned thought, when, after tea, she 
said, "Father, it's a moonlight night; couldn't 
you and I drive to the village ? Ned will excuse 
our leaving him alone.'' 

" Excuse ! " When had his mother ever asked 
him to excuse her ? And then, as mother waited 
for the wagon to be got ready, she asked him to 
read about the Savior's birth, and surely there were 
tears in her eyes as father came in, just as Ned 
read, " And they came with haste and found Mary 
and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger." 

Mr. Huntley was bewildered, too. To start off 
for the village at seven o'clock in the evening ! 
When had such a thing happened ? 

On the road Mrs. Huntley told her husband 
what Mamie had said to her, and she added, 
" Perhaps, as I tell it, it don't seem much, but it 
made me think of our Polly, and " — the woman's 
voice broke, and the father, saddened too, said, 
comfortingly, " She 's safe, my dear, in heaven." 

" Yes, father, but I 'm thinking of the one that 's 
left, for all I cried a little. I guess you were near 
right about getting him something nice. He 's 
but a boy yet, and he 'd think more of Christ- 
mas, and perhaps of the child that was born on 
Christmas, if we show him that Jesus has made our 
hearts a little more tender." 

i8 77 .] 




What it cost that hard, reserved woman to say 
that, none knew, but I think her husband felt dimly 
how she must have fought with herself, and he was 
silent for some time. At last he said, with a tone 
of gladness in his voice, "My dear, I'm glad to 
get him something. He 's a good boy, Ned is." 

What a pleasant time they had, and how they 
caught the spirit of Christmas ! They bought a 
sled and skates, a book or two, and candies, and 
Mrs. Huntley found a jack-knife that was just the 
thing Ned wanted. Then she said to her husband: 

" I 'd like to buy something for Mamie. It will 
be nice to buy a girl's present." 

Their hearts ached a little, as they chose a won- 
derful little wash-tub and board, with a clothes- 
horse to match. How Polly's eyes would have 
shone at these ! 

Meantime, Ned mused over his mother's tears 
and her strangely kind tones, and thought : 
" I wonder if she 's going to be as good to me as 

she was to Polly ! 1 hated to hear Mamie talk 
about Santa Claus. Polly used to talk just that 
way, and we did have such good times. I used to 
get skates and things at Christmas, but now I get 
some handkerchiefs or a lot of shirts ! It makes 
me mad." Then Ned fell asleep, and so the mother 
found him. She woke him gently and he went 
off to bed, bewildered by more kind words. 

Morning dawned and Ned hurried down to light 
the tire in the kitchen, but he went no further than 
the sitting-room. There was a sled, — a splendid 
one, — a pair of skates, and books ! He put his 
hands in his pockets to take a long stare, and felt 
something strange in one of them. Why ! There 
was a beautiful knife ! 

Mother came in and watched his face, but at 
sight of her the boy fairly broke down. Laying 
his head on her shoulder, " It 's like Polly coming 
back," he said. 

And so it was, and so it continued to be. 






By Jennie A. Owen. 

"AUNT Jennie," said my little godson Willie, 
a few days ago, "wont you go with us to see the 
Lord Mayor's show? There '11 be thirteen ele- 
phants and eight clowns, and an elephant picks a 
man up with his trunk and holds him there. And 
then mamma 's going to take me to Sampson's. 
Do you know Sampson, Aunt Jennie? " 

" I know about Samson in the Bible, Willie." 

" Oh, not that one ; our Sampson is a man in a 
shop in Oxford street, and he makes such nice 
boys' clothes, and he 's the master." 

I have just come home from the Sandwich 
Islands, where I have been living; I spent a few 
years, too, in New Zealand and Tahiti, and so have 
seen many wonderful things on the land and sea; 
but a Lord Mayor going to be sworn in to his 
duties, attended by thirteen elephants and a London 
crowd, would be a novelty to me. I thought, too, 
that certain little boys and girls in the Sandwich 
Islands and the United States, who also call me 
Aunt Jennie, would like to hear all about it. 

This has been an exciting week for the London 
children. The fifth of November fell on Sunday, 
and Guy Fawkes had to wait till Monday to make 
his appearance. All that day he was carried about 
the streets in various shapes and forms, and the 
naughty, ignorant little boys, in spite of enlightened 
school-board teaching, sang at our doors : 

"A ha'penny loaf to feed the Pope, 
A penn'orth of cheese to choke him, 
A pint of beer to wash it all down, 
And a jolly good fire to bum him." 

"Oh, papa," said Willie, as he ran into the 
breakfast-room for pennies, "are n't you glad 
you 're a real man and not a pope? " 

At last the ninth, the Lord Mayor's day, came. 
It is also the Prince of Wales' birthday, so the city 
would be very gay-looking with all the flags flying. 

Alas ! it was a dark, dull morning, and a heavy 
fog hung all over the city. Alas for the gilt 
coaches, the steel armor and other braveries ! and 
then the elephants, how could they possibly feel 
their way all round the city in a thick, yellow fog ? 
But, happily, by eleven the weather cleared, and 
the sun shone out brightly. Such a crowd as 
there was at our railway depot ! So many bonny, 
happy little children never went on the same 
morning to the busy old town before. It was 
something new for great elephants to be seen 

walking through the prosy business streets. Once 
before, twenty-seven years ago, when Sir John 
Musgrave was Lord Mayor, not only elephants, 
but camels, deer, negroes, beehives, a ship in full 
sail, and Britannia seated on a car drawn by six 
horses, had made part of the show; since then, 
however, no Lord Mayor had been thoughtful 
enough of little and big children's pleasure to order 
out such delightful things, and so this year every- 
body must go. To quote from the Daily News : 
"Since the reign of Henry III., when, by that 
monarch's gracious act the Lord Mayor of London 
was permitted to present himself before the Barons 
of Exchequer at Westminster instead of submitting 
the citizens' choice for the king's personal approval, 
there has been no Lord Mayor's show at which 
so great a concourse of spectators assembled." 

We crowd into the cars and are soon in Cannon 
street. At the gates a boy meets us with little 
books for sale, shouting, "Thirteen elephants for a 
penny ! the other boys '11 only give you twelve, but 
I '11 give you thirteen. Sold again ! Thirteen 
elephants for a penny ! " This wonderful book 
consists of a series of common gaudily colored pict- 
ures, supposed to represent the procession, which 
has done service at the show from time imme- 
morial, but it is each year as welcome as ever to 
the children who each have a penny to buy one. 
Through the streets we have passing visions of pink 
silk stockings, canary-colored breeches, and dark 
green coats and gold lace, also tri-colored rosettes 
as large as saucers ; and pass by shop-windows full 
of sweet, eager little faces, in the place of hose, 
shirts, sewing-machines, etc. 

At last we arrive at our destination in Cheapside, 
where, through the kindness of a friend, a window 
on the first floor of a large building is waiting for 
us. How impatient we are until we hear the band 
of the Grenadier Guards, which heads the proces- 
sion. After this band and that of the Royal Lon- 
don Militia, come the Worshipful Company of 
Loriners, preceded by jolly watermen in blue and 
white striped jerseys and white trousers, bearing 
banners; more watermen follow to relieve them; 
the beadle of the company with his staff of office ; 
the clerk in his chariot ; the wardens, wearing silk 
cloaks trimmed with sables, in their carriages, and 
amongst them Sir John Bennett, the great watch- 
maker in Cheapside, a charming-looking old gentle- 
man with rosy cheeks and profuse gray curls; his 

■8 77 .] 


face lights up with smiles as the shouts of "Bravo, 
Bennett," show how popular he is. 

Then comes a grand yellow coach, in which 
rides the Master of the Company, attended by his 
chaplain. After the Loriners come the Farriers, 
the band of the First Life Guards, banners, beadle 
and mace clerk, wardens and master. After them 
the Broderers. As these pass slowly along, an 
excitement is caused by the behavior of the horse 
of a hussar, who is mounting guard. It does not 
like the proceedings at all, and still less the greasy 
asphalt on which it stands, dances round, backs 
into the Worshipful Master of Broderers' carriage, 
and finally rears and falls, unseating its rider. The 
hussar is quite cool and quiet, soon reseats himself, 
and rejects the offer of a fussy little man in red to 
hold his horse. 

And now comes the Worshipful Company of 
Bakers, preceded by their banner, with its good 
old motto, " Praise God for all." These are really 
very jolly and well-favored looking companions, 
most of the members bearing large bouquets of 
flowers. After them the Vintners' Company, with 
the band of the Royal Artillery; ten Commissioners, 
each bearing a shield ; eight master porters in 
vintner's dress ; the Bargemaster in full uniform, 
and the Swan Uppers. These are men who look 
after the swans belonging to the corporation of 
London, which build their nests along the banks 
of the Thames, and they mark the young swans 
each spring. 

The " Uppers" look very well in their dress, con- 
sisting of dark cloth jackets slashed with white, 
blue and white striped jerseys and white trousers. 

After this company had passed, a grand shout 
announced the coming of the elephants. These, 
as some small boy has observed, are " curious 
animals, with two tails — one before and one be- 
hind." First came a number of large ones, with 
Mr. Sanger, their owner, who was mounted on a 
curiously spotted horse. They were gorgeous with 
oriental trappings and howdahs. On the foremost 
one rode a man representing a grand Indian 
prince. He had a reddish mustache, wore spec- 
tacles, a magnificent purple and white turban, and 
showy oriental costume. He produced a great 
impression on the crowd. In other howdahs sat 
one, two or three splendid Hindoos, whose dress 
was past description. Then came several young 
elephants ridden by boys ; one of these was seized 
with a desire to lie down, and had to be vigorously 
roused; but, on the whole, they behaved in a 
wonderfully correct and dignified manner — now 
and then gracefully swinging round their trunks 
amongst the sympathizing crowd, in search of 

The elephants were escorted by equestrians in 

state costumes, and followed by six knights in 
steel armor, with lances and pennons, mounted on 
chargers. One of these " wouldn't go," and had 
to be dragged on ignominiously by a policeman. 
Then the Epping Forest rangers came. They 
were picturesquely dressed in green velvet coats, 
broad-brimmed hats and long feathers. After 
these, trumpeters, under-sheriffs in their state car- 
riages, aldermen, the Recorder, more trumpeters, 
and then a most gorgeous coach — with hammer- 
cloth of red and gold, men in liveries too splendid 
to describe, and four fine horses — brings the late 
lord mayor. The mounted band of household 
cavalry follows. These really look splendid in 
crimson coats covered with gold embroidery and 
velvet caps, riding handsome white horses. 

There is a stoppage just as they come up. 
They are rapturously greeted by the crowd, and 
requested to "play up." The mayor's servants, 
in state liveries, follow on foot. After them rides 
a very important person, the city marshal, on 
horseback. The city trumpeters come now, pre- 
ceding the right honorable the lord mayor's most 
gorgeous gilt coach, drawn by six horses. In it 
sits Sir Thomas White, supported by his chaplain, 
and attended by his sword-bearer and the common 
crier. An escort of the 2ist Hussars brings up 
the rear. Policemen follow, and after them a stray 
mail-cart, a butcher's boy with his tray ; after that, 
not just the deluge, but the crowd. 

"Oh, mamma!" says Willie, "the beefeaters 
did n't come ! Nine of them there are in my 
book, and a grand one going in front, blowing a 
trumpet. And the man holding his thumb to his 
nose at the sheriffs ; and the policeman knocking 
a thief down with a staff ! And the lord mayor 
had no spectacles on. That 's not fair ! Do beef- 
eaters eat lots of beef, mamma ? " 

" Oh, no," says Charlie, with a superior air, 
" they are only sideboard chaps." 

Willie is still more puzzled, until he is told that 
in the olden time servants so costumed used to 
stand by the sideboard, or buffet, as it was called, 
at feasts, and so got the name of buffetiers, and 
by degrees the name became changed into beef- 
eaters, which was more easily remembered by the 

From our window we could not, of course, follow 
the procession on its winding way, nor had we 
seen it start. On looking at the paper next morn- 
ing, we read that at first it was feared that the 
elephants had failed to keep their appointment. 
It was almost time to set out, and no elephants 
were to be seen. What must be done ? The 
people ought not to be cheated out of the best part 
of the show ; and yet, on the other hand, how 
undignified for a lord mayor to be kept waiting for 

2 4 




t8 77 .) 



thirteen elephants ! I am sorry to say the police 
were rather glad. They had been very much 
afraid that the animals might prove troublesome 
during so long and unusual a walk ; or else, 
coming from a circus, might, at any sudden pause, 
imagine themselves in the arena, and take it into 
their grave heads to perform on two legs and 
terrify the horses, or possibly annoy the lord 
mayor and his chaplain by putting their long 
trunks into his coach. But, happily for us, the 
police were disappointed. Such dignified creatures 
could not be expected to come early and be kept 

Just at the right time they came leisurely up, 

and gravely taking their proper place, marched 
on with their proverbial sagacity — waiting outside 
Westminster Hall, whilst the lord mayor swore to 
do his duty, as quietly as though they were at 
home — and afterward left the procession at Black- 
friars Bridge, to go to their own quarters and eat 
their well-earned dinner. It is to be hoped that 
the lord mayor ordered something specially good 
for them. 

The elephants having left, the embassadors, her 
majesty's ministers of state, the nobility, judges, 
and other persons of distinction, joined the proces- 
sion, and proceeded to feast with his lordship and 
the lady mayoress at Guildhall. 


By John S. Adams. 


A LITTLE corner with its crib, 

A little mug, a spoon, a bib, 

A little tooth so pearly white, 

A little rubber ring to bite. 


A little muff for winter weather, 

A little jockey-hat and feather, 

A little sack with funny pockets, 

A little chain, a ring, and lockets. 


A little plate all lettered round, 

A little rattle to resound, 

A little creeping — see ! she stands ! 

A little step 'twixt outstretched hands. 


A little while to dance and bow, 

A little escort homeward now, 

A little party, somewhat late, 

A little lingering at the gate. 


A little doll with flaxen hair, 

A little willow rocking-chair, 

A little dress of richest hue, 

A little pair of gaiters blue. 


A little walk in leafy June, 

A little talk while shines the moon, 

A little reference to papa, 

A little planning with mamma. 


A little school day after day, 

A "little schoolma'am " to obey, 

A little study — soon 't is past, 

A little graduate at last. 


A little ceremony grave, 

A little struggle to be brave, 

A little cottage on a lawn, 

A little kiss — my girl was gone ! 




By Richard A. Proctor. 

Not long ago, the planet Jupiter came among 
the stars of our southern evening skies. Those 
who noted down his track found that he first ad- 
vanced from west to east, then receded along a 
track near his advancing one, then advanced again, 
still running on a track side by side with his former 
advancing track, and so passed away from the 
scene, toward the part of the sky where the sun's 
light prevents our tracking him. 

That was a useful and rather easy first lesson 
about the motions of the bodies called planets. 

We have now to consider a rather less simple 
case, but one a great deal more interesting. Two 
planets intrude among our evening stars, each 
following a looped track, but the tracks are unlike; 
the two planets are unlike in appearance, and they 
are also very unlike in reality. 

I hope many of my young readers have already 
found out for themselves that these intrusive bodies 
have been wandering among our fixed stars. I 
purposely said nothing about the visitors last 
August, so that those who try to learn the star- 
groups from my maps may have had a chance of 
discovering the two planets for themselves. If they 
have done so, they have in fact repeated a discov- 
ery which was made many, many years ago. Ages 
before astronomy began to be a science, men found 
out that some of the stars move about among the 
rest, and they also noticed the kind of path trav- 
eled in the sky by each of those moving bodies. 
It was long, indeed, before they found out the kind 
of path traveled really by the planets. In fact, 
they supposed our earth to be fixed ; and if our 
earth were fixed, the paths of the planets about 
her as a center would be twisted and tangled in 
the most perplexing way. So that folks in those 
old times, seeing the planets making all manner 
of loops and twistings round the sky, and suppos- 
ing they made corresponding loops and twistings 
in traveling round the earth, thought the planets 
were living creatures, going round the earth to 
watch it and rule over it, each according to his own 
fashion. So they worshiped the planets as gods, 
counting seven of them, including the sun and 
moon. Some they thought good to men, others 
evil. The two planets now twisting their way 
along the southern skies were two of the evil sort, 
viz. : Mars, called the Lesser Infortune, and Sat- 

urn, called the Greater Infortune. In the old 
system of star-worship, Mars ruled over Tuesday, 
and Saturn over Saturday, — the Sabbath of olden 
times, — a day which the Chaldean and Egyptian 
astrologers regarded as the most unlucky in the 
whole week. 

The actual paths traveled among the stars by 
these two planets, this fall, are shown in Fig. I. 
You will see how wildly the fiery Mars, the planet 
of war, careers round his great loop, while old 
Saturn, " heavy, dull, and slow " (as Armado says 
that lead is — the metal dedicated to Saturn), 
plods slowly and wearily along. Between August 
6 and October I, Mars traversed his entire back- 
ward track, — Saturn, you notice, only a small por- 
tion of his much smaller loop. On the sky, too, 
you will see that while Mars shines with a fierce 
ruddy glow, well suited to his warlike character, 
Saturn shines with a dull yellow light, suggestive of 


the evil qualities which the astrologers of old assigned 
to him. " My loking," says Saturn, in Chaucer's 
" Canterbury Tales," " is the fader of pestilence : 

" Min ben also the maladies colde, 
The derke treasons, and the costes olde ; 
Min is the drenching in the see so wan, 
Min is the prison in the derke cote,* 
Min is the strangel and hanging by the throte, 
The murmure, and the cherlesf rebelling, 
The groyning and the prine empoysoning." 

* Dark or gloomy coast. This line was amusingly rendered, by the printer of my " Satum and its System," in which I quoted Chaucer's 
lines, " Mine is the prison, and the dirty coat." 

t Churl's. Notice this word. It is the same as the word rendered Charles's in the common English name for the Dipper. One should 
always say Charles's Wain, not Charles' (as is the way Tennyson does in the " May Queen "). 



2 7 

pretty, though not regular, the loops on one side 
being much larger than those on the othfr. I 
would show the picture here, but it is too large. 
One of these days, it will be given in a book I am 
going to write about Mars, who is quite important 
enough to have a book all to himself. I want you, 


X^ * 

s. * J m*~^ 

For the present, however, let us consider the 
planet Mars, leaving slow Saturn to wait for us 
another month. 

It has always seemed to me one of the most use- 
ful lessons in astronomy to follow the line by which, 
long ago, great discoveries were made. Thus, if 
the young reader went out on 
every fine night and noted the 
changing position of Mars, he 
traced out the track shown in 
Fig. 1. He noted, also, that the 
planet, which shone at its bright- 
est about September 5, gradually 
grew less and less bright as it trav- 
eled off, after rounding the station 
near October 5 (really on Oct. 7), 
toward the east. He observed, then, 
that the seeming loop followed by 
the planet was a real looped track (so far, at least, 
as our observer on the earth was concerned). Fig. 
2 shows the apparent shape of Mars's loop, the 
dates corresponding to those shown in Fig. 1. Only 
it does not lie flat, as shown on the paper, but 
must be supposed to lie somewhat under the surface 
of the paper, as shown by the little upright a, b, 
which, indeed, gives the distance under the paper 
at which the part of the loop is supposed to lie 
where lowest, at in. The other similar uprights at 
M], M 2 , and M 3 show the depression at these places. 
You perceive that the part M„ M 2 , lies higher than 
the part M 2 , M 3 . If the loop were flat, and, like 
E, the earth, were in the level of the paper, it 
would be seen edgewise, and the advancing, re- 
ceding, and advancing parts of the planet's 
course would all lie on the same line upon the sky. 
But being thus out of the level, we see through 
the loop, so to speak, and it has the seeming shape 
shown in Fig. I.* 

This is one loop, you will understand, out of an 
immense number which Mars makes in journeying 
round the earth, regarded as fixed. He retreats 
to a great distance, swoops inward again toward 
the earth, making a loop as in Fig. 2, and retreat- 
ing again. Then he comes again, makes another 
swoop, and a loop on another side, and so on. He 
behaves, in fact, like that "little quiver fellow," a 
right martialist, no doubt, who, as Justice Shallow 
tells us, "would about and about, and come you in, 
and come you in, — and away again would a go, 
and again would a come." The loops are not 
all of the same size. The one shown in Fig. 2 is 
one of the smallest. I have before me a picture 
which I have made of all this planet's loops from 
1875 to 1892, and it forms the most curiously inter- 
twined set of curves you can imagine, — rather 

* I must re-mention that though this explanation is made as simple as I possibly can make it, so far as words are concerned, the figure: 
present the result of an exact geometrical investigation. Every dot, for instance, in Fig. 2, has had its place separately determined by me. 


now, to understand me that Mars really does travel 
in a most complicated path, when you consider 
the earth as at rest. If a perfect picture of all 
his loopings and twistings since astronomy began 
could be drawn, — even on a sheet of paper as large 
as the floor of a room, — the curves would so inter- 
lace that you would not be able to track them out, 
but be always leaving the true track and getting 
upon one crossing it slightly aslant, — just like the 
lines by which rains are made to run easily off one 
track on to another. 

The unfortunate astronomers of old times, who 
had to explain, if they could, this complicated 
behavior of Mars (and of other planets, too), were 
quite beaten. The more carefully they made their 
observations, the more peculiar the motions seemed. 
One astronomer gave up the work in despair, just 
like that unfortunate Greek philosopher who, be- 
cause he could not understand the tides of the 
Euboean Sea, drowned himself in it. So this astron- 
omer, who was a king, — Alphonsus of Portugal, — 
unable to unravel the loops of the planets, said, in 
his wrath, that if he had been called on by the 
Creator to assign the planets their paths, he would 
have managed the matter a great deal better. The 
plates of the old astronomical books became more 
and more confusing, and cost more and more 
labor, as astronomers continued to 

"Build, unbuild, contrive 
To save appearances, to gird the sphere 
With centric and eccentric scribbled o'er, 
Cycle and epicycle, orb in orb." 

It was to the study of Mars, the wildest wanderer 
of all, that we owe the removal of all these perplex- 
ities. The idea had occurred to the great astrono- 
mer, Copernicus, that the complexities of the 




planets' paths are not real, but are caused by the 
constant moving about of the place from whence 
we watch the planets. If a fly at rest at the middle 
of a clock face watched the ends of the two hands, 
they would seem to go round him in circles; but 
if, instead, he was on the end of one of the hands 
(and was not knocked off as the other passed), the 
end of this other hand would not move round the fly 
in the same simple way. When the two hands were 
together it would be near, when they were opposite 
it would be far away, and, without entering into any 



,;«& — —r 

8 f 





particular description of the way in which it would 
seem to move, you can easily see that the motion 
would seem much more complicated than if the fly 
watched it from the middle of the clock face. 
Now, Copernicus did enter into particulars, and 
showed by mathematical reasoning that nearly all 
the peculiarities of the planets' motions could be 
explained by supposing that the sun, not the earth, 
was the body round which the planets move, and 
that they go round him nearly in circles. 

But Copernicus could not explain all the mo- 
tions. And Tycho Brahe, another great astrono- 
mer, who did not believe at all in the new ideas of 
Copernicus, made a number of observations on our 
near neighbor Mars, to show that Copernicus was 
wrong. He gave these to Kepler, another great 
astronomer, enjoining him to explain them in such 
a way as to overthrow the Copemican ideas. But 
Kepler behaved like Balaam the son of Beor ; for, 

called on to curse (or at least to denounce) the views 
of Copernicus, he altogether blessed them three 
times. First, he found from the motions of Mars 
that the planets do not travel in circles, but in ovals, 
very nearly circular in shape, but not having the 
sun exactly at the center. Secondly, he discovered 
the law according to which they move, now faster 
now slower, in their oval paths ; and thirdly, he 
found a law according to which the nearer planets 
travel more quickly and the farther planets more 
slowly, every distance having its own proper rate. 
These three laws of Kepler constitute 
the Magna Charta of the solar system. 

Afterward, New-ton showed how it 
happens that the planets obey these 
laws, but as his part of the work had 
no particular reference to Mars, I say 
no more about it in this place. 

Here, in Fig. 3, are the real paths of 
Mars and the Earth, and also of Venus 
and Mercury. No loops, you see, in 
any of them, simply because we have 
set the sun in the middle. Set the 
earth in the middle, and each planet 
would have its own set of loops, each 
set enormously complicated, and all 
three sets mixed together in the most 
confusing way. It is well to remember 
this when you see, as in many books 
of astronomy, the old theory illustrated 
with a set of circles looking almost as 
neat and compact as the set truly rep- 
resenting the modern theory. For the 
idea is suggested by this simple picture 
of the old theory that the theory itself 
was simple, whereas it had become so 
confusing that not merely young learn- 
ers, but the most profound mathema- 
ticians, were baffled when they tried to unravel the 
motions of the planets. 

I think the figure pretty well explains itself. All 
I need mention is, that while the shape and posi- 
tion of each path is correctly shown, the size of the 
sun at center is immensely exaggerated. A mere 
pin point, but shining with star-like splendor, 
would properly represent him. As for the figures 
of the earth and Mars, they are still more tremen- 
dously out of proportion. The cross-breadth of 
the lines representing these planets' tracks is many 
times greater than the breadth of either planet on 
the scale of the chart. " 

On September 5 the earth and Mars came to the 
position shown at E and M. You observe that 
they could not be much nearer. It is indeed very 
seldom that Mars is so well placed for observation. 
His illuminated face was turned toward the dark or 
night half of the earth, so that he shone brightly 




in the sky at midnight, and can be well studied 
with the telescope. 

When Galileo turned toward Mars the telescope 
with which he had discovered the moons of Jupiter, 
the crescent form of Venus, and many other won- 
ders in the heavens, he was altogether disappointed. 
His telescope was indeed too small to show any 
features of interest in Mars, though the planet of 
war is much nearer to us than Jupiter. Mars is 
but a small world. The diameter of the planet is 
about 4,400 miles, that of our earth being nearly 
8,000. Jupiter, though much farther away, has 
his immense diameter of more than 80,000 miles to 
make up, and much more than make up, for the 
effect of distance. With his noble system of moons 
he appears a remarkable object even with a small 
telescope, while Mars shows no feature of interest 
even with telescopes of considerable size. 

It was not, then, till very powerful telescopes had 
been constructed that astronomers learned what we 
now know about Mars.* 

It is found that his surface is divided into land 
and water, like the surface of our own earth. But 
his seas and oceans are not nearly so large com- 
pared with his continents and lands. You know 
that on our own earth the water covers so much 
larger a surface than the land that the great conti- 
nents are in reality islands. Europe, Asia and Africa 
together form one great island ; North and South 
America another, not quite so large ; then come 
Australia, Greenland, Madagascar, and so forth ; 
all the lands being islands, larger or smaller. On 
the other hand, except the Caspian Sea and the 
Sea of Aral, there are no large seas entirely land- 
bound. In the case of Mars a very different state 
of things prevails, as you will see from the three 
accompanying pictures (hitherto unpublished), 
drawn by the famous English observer. Dawes 
(called the Eagle-eyed). The third and best was 
drawn with a telescope constructed by your famous 
optician, Alvan Clark, of Cambridge, Massachusetts. 
The dark parts are the seas, the light parts being 
land, or in some cases cloud or snow. But in these 
pictures most of the lighter portions represent land; 
for they have been seen often so shaped, whereas 
clouds, of course, would change in shape. 

The planet Mars, like our earth, turns on its 
axis, so that it has day and night as we have. The 
length of its day is not very different from that of 
our own day. Our earth turns once on its axis in 

but before reading on, try to complete this 

sentence for yourself. Every one knows that the 
earth's turning on its axis produces day and night, 
and nine persons out of ten, if asked how long the 
earth takes in turning round her axis, will answer, 
24 hours ; and if asked how many times she turns 
on her axis in a year, will say 365 times, or if dis- 

* See item, " Moons of Mars," 

posed to be very exact, " about 365 ^ times." But 
neither answer is correct. The earth turns on her 
axis about 366^ times in each year, and each turn- 
ing occupies 23 hours 56 minutes and 4 seconds 

APPEARANCE OF MARS, 1852, MARCH 23, 5 H. 45 M., 
Greenwich Mean Time. Power of Telescope, 358; 6 1-3 inch object-glass. 


Greenwich Mean Time. Power of Telescope, 242 and 358 on 6 1-3 inch 


Greenwich Mean Time. Power of Telescope, 201; 8 1-4 inch object-glass- 
Planet very low, yet pretty distinct. 

and I tenth of a second. We, taking the ordinary 
day as the time of a turning or rotation, lose count 
of one rotation each year. It is necessary to men- 
tion this, in order that when I tell you how long 

n " Letter-Box " Department. 




the day of Mars is, you may be able correctly to 
compare it with our own day. Mars, then, turns 
on his axis in 24 hours 37 minutes 22 seconds and 
7 tenth-parts of a second. So that Mars requires 
41 minutes 18 seconds and 6-tenths of a second 
longer to turn his small body once round than our 
earth requires to turn round her much larger body. 
The common day of Mars is, however, only about 
39 minutes longer than our common day. 

Mars has a long year, taking no less than 687 
of our days to complete his circuit round the sun, 
so that his year lasts only about one month and a 
half less than two of ours. 

Like the earth, Mars has seasons, for his polar 
axis, like that of the earth, is aslant, and at one 
part of his year brings his northern regions more 
fully into sunlight, at which time summer prevails 
there and winter in his southern regions ; while at 
the opposite part of his year his southern regions 
are turned more fully sunward and have their 
summer, while winter prevails over his northern 

Around his poles, as around the earth's, there 
are great masses of ice, insomuch that it is very 
doubtful whether any inhabitants of Mars have 
been able to penetrate to his poles, any more than 
Kane or Hayes or Nares or Parry, despite their 
courage and endurance, have been able to reach 
our northern pole, or Cook or Wilkes or James 
Ross our antarctic pole. 

In the summer of either hemisphere of Mars, 
the north polar snows become greatly reduced in 
extent, as is natural, while in winter they reach to 
low latitudes, showing that in parts of the planet 
corresponding to the United States, or mid-Europe, 
as to latitude, bitter cold must prevail for several 
weeks in succession. 

The land regions of Mars can be distinguished 
from the seas by their ruddy color, the seas being 
greenish. But here, perhaps, you will be disposed 
to ask how astronomers can be sure that the green- 
ish regions are seas, the ruddy regions land, the 
white spots either snow or cloud. Might not 
materials altogether unlike any we are acquainted 
with exist upon that remote planet ? 

The spectroscope answers this question in the 
clearest way. You may remember what I told you 
in October, 1876, about Venus, how astronomers 
have learned that the vapor of water exists in her 
atmosphere. The same method has been applied, 
even more satisfactorily, to the planet of war, and it 
has been found that he also has his atmosphere at 
times laden with moisture. This being so, it is 
clear we have not to do with a planet made of 
materials utterly unlike those forming our earth. 
To suppose so, when we find that the air of Mars, 
formed like our own (for if it contained other gases 

the spectroscope would tell us), contains often large 
quantities of the vapor of water, would be as 
absurd as to believe in the green cheese theory of 
the moon, or in another equally preposterous, 
advanced lately by an English artist — Mr. J. Brett 
— to the effect that the atmosphere of Venus is 
formed of glass. 

There is another theory about Mars, certainly 
not so absurd as either of those just named, but 
scarcely supported by evidence at present — the 
idea, namely, advanced by a French astronomer, 
that the ruddy color of the lands and seas of Mars is 
due to red trees and a generally scarlet vegetation. 
Your poet Holmes refers to this in those lines of 
his, "Star-clouds and Wind-clouds" (to my mind, 
among the most charming of his many charming 
poems) : 

The snows that glittered on the disc of Mars 
Have melted, and the planet's fiery orb 
Rolls in the crimson summer of its year." 

It is quite possible, of course, that such colors as 
are often seen in American woods in the autumn- 
time may prevail in the forests and vegetation of 
Mars during the fullness of the Martian summer. 
The fact that during this season the planet looks 
ruddier than usual, in some degree corresponds 
with this theory. But it is much better explained, 
to my mind, by the greater clearness of the Martian 
air in the summer-time. That would enable us to 
see the color of the soil better. If our earth were 
looked at from Venus during the winter-time, the 
snows covering large parts of her surface, and the 
clouds and mists common in the winter months, 
would hide the tints of the surface, whereas these 
would be very distinct in clear summer weather. 

I fear my own conclusion about Mars is that his 
present condition is very desolate. I look on the 
ruddiness of tint to which I have referred as one 
of the signs that the planet of war has long since 
passed its prime. There are lands and seas in 
Mars, the vapor of water is present in his air, 
clouds form, rains and snows fall upon his surface, 
and doubtless brooks and rivers irrigate his soil, 
and carry down the moisture collected on his wide 
continents to the seas whence the clouds had orig- 
inally been formed. But I do not think there is 
much vegetation on Mars, or that many living 
creatures of the higher types of Martian life as it 
once existed still remain. All that is known about 
the planet tends to show that the time when it 
attained that stage of planetary existence through 
which our earth is now passing must be set millions 
of years, perhaps hundreds of millions of years, ago. 
He has not yet, indeed, reached that airless and 
waterless condition, that extremity of internal cold, 
or in fact that utter unfitness to support any kind 

i8 77 .J 



of life, which would seem to prevail in the moon. 
The planet of war in some respects resembles a 
desolate battle-field, and I fancy that there is not a 
single region of the earth now inhabited by man 
which is not infinitely more comfortable as an abode 
of life than the most favored regions of Mars at the 
present time would be for creatures like ourselves. 
But there are other subjects besides astronomy 
that the readers of the St. Nicholas want to learn 
about. I do not wish you to have to say to me 

what a little daughter of mine said the other day. 
She had asked me several questions about the sun, 
and after I had answered them I went on to tell 
her several things which she had not asked. She 
listened patiently for quite a long time, — fully five 
minutes, I really believe, — and then she said : 
' Don't you think, papa, that that's enough about 
the sun ? Come and play with us on the lawn." 
So, as it was holiday time, we went and played in 
the sun, instead of talking about him. 


Part I. 

" Mother ! from this moment, behold me, my 
own master ! 
Yes, madam, I am old enough. I mean just 
what I say." 

Part II. 

And, but for a sudden and unforeseen dis^ 

The puppy might have kept his resolution to 

this da v. 


By C. F. Holder. 

A CERTAIN pond in the country was once peopled 
with a number of turtles, frogs, and fishes which I 
came to consider my pets, and which at last grew so 
tame that I fed them from my hands. Among 
them, however, were four or five little sticklebacks 
that lived under the shade of a big willow, and 
these were so quarrelsome that I generally fed 

them apart from the rest. But sometimes all met, 
and then the feast usually was ended by the death 
of a minnow. For, shocking to say, whenever there 
was a dispute for the food, some one of the little 
fishes was almost sure to be devoured by the hungry 

These stickleback-and-minnow combats, after a 

3 2 



while, came to be of daily occurrence, and the reason 
for this was a singular one, which I must explain. 
Under the willow shade, and from one of the 

branches, I had hung a 
miniature " belfry," con- 
taining a tiny brass bell, 
and had led the string into 
the water, letting it go down 
to a considerable depth. 
At first, I tied bait at in- 
tervals upon the line, and 
the sticklebacks, of course, 
seized upon it, and thus 
rang the bell. Generally 
the ringing was done in a 
very grave and proper way, 
although sometimes, when 
the bait was too tightly tied, 
the quick peals sounded like 
a call to a fire. 

I kept up this system of 
baiting the string for about 
a week, until I thought they 
understood it, and then re- 





placed the worms by bits of stone. As I expected, 
the next morning, as I looked through the grass 
and down into the water, tinkle ! tinkle ! rang the 

bell, and I knew my little friends were saying, 
" Good-morning ! " and expected a breakfast. You 
may be sure they got it. I put my hand down, 
and up they came, and got one worm apiece ; and 
as I raised my hand, down they rushed, and away 
went the bell, in an uproarious peal, that must 
have startled the whole neighborhood. I was quick 
to respond, and they soon learned to ring the bell 
before coming to the surface ; in fact, if they saw 
me pass, I always heard their welcome greeting. 
But to return to the minnows. 

I generally fed them first, about twenty feet up 
the bank ; but one morning I found one or two 
had followed me down to the residence of the 
stickleback family. They met with a rude recep- 
tion, however, and, to avoid making trouble, the 
next day I went to the willow first. But no sooner 
had the bell begun to ring, than I saw a lot of rip- 
ples coming down, and in a second the two factions 
were in mortal combat. The sticklebacks were fight- 
ing not only for breakfast, but for their nests, which 
were near by ; and they made sad work of the poor 
minnows, who, though smart in some things, did 
not know when they were whipped, and so kept up 
the fight, though losing one of their number nearly 
every morning. The bell now and then rang vio- 
lently, but I fear it was only sounding an appeal 
from a voracious stickle- 
back whose appetite had 
got the better of his rage. 
-• ■' "■■-•"'/■'.'* ---.*&'■ So it went on every 

morning. The minnows 
had learned what the bell 
meant, and though usually 
defeated in the fight, they 
in reality had their betters 
as servants to ring the bell 
and call them to meals. 
Finally, they succeeded, 
by force of great numbers, 
in driving away their pug- 
nacious little rivals, and 
the bell hung silent ; for, 
strange to say, they knew 
what the sound meant, but 
I could never teach them 
to ring it, when they could 
rise and steal the worm 
from my hand without. 
But I am inclined to think 
it was more laziness than 
inability to learn, as they 
aftenvard picked up readily 
some much more difficult 
tricks. I taught them to leap from the water into 
my hand, and lie as if dead ; and having arranged 
a slide of polished wood upon the bank, by placing 

i8 7 7-l 



worms upon it I soon had them leaping out and there was nothing to attract but the fun of sliding, 

sliding down like so many boys coasting in the This kind of amusement is not uncommon with 

winter. That they afterward did it for amusement many other animals, particularly seals, which de- 

I know, as I often watched them unobserved when light in making " slides" on the icy shores. 


By Mrs. Clara Doty Bates. 

Old Granny Cricket's rocking-chair, 

Creakety-creak, creakety-creak ! — 
Back and forth, and here and there, 

Squeakety-squeak, squeakety-squeak ! — 
On the hearth-stone, every night, 

Rocks and rocks in the cheery light. 
Little old woman, dressed in black, 

With spindling arms and a crooked back, 
She sits with a cap on her wise old head, 

And her eyes are fixed on the embers red ; 
She does not sing, she does not speak, 

But the rocking-chair goes creakety-creak ! 

Vol. V.— 3. 

Cheerily sounds the rocking-chair, 

Creakety-creak, creakety-creak ! — 
While it swings in the firelight there, 

Squeakety-squeak, squeakety-squeak ! 
Old Granny Cricket, rocking, rocking, 

Knits and knits on a long black stocking. 
No matter how swiftly her fingers fly, 

She never can keep her family. 
With their legs so long from foot to knee, 

Stockinged as well as they ought to be ; 
That 's why, at night, week after week, 

Her rocking-chair goes squeakety-squeak ! 





By G. M. Shaw. 

" Here, sir ! Please take this bird around to 
Albro's, and see how much it weighs." 

The idea ! What would the folks over the way 
say, to see the "professor" walking out with a big 
turkey under his arm ? That was the way the 
thing presented itself to the good-natured college- 
student acting as private tutor in the family. But 
Mrs. Simpson, the portly and practical housewife, 
had no such idea of the fitness of things. 

It was the day before Thanksgiving, and the 
farmer who had agreed to supply her with a turkey 
had brought it, but had not weighed it, and, of 
course, they could not agree on its weight, all of 
which ended in the startling proposition with which 
we began. 

" Well, if you aint the laziest man ! Just as 

though it was going to hurt you any to take this 
bird to the corner and back ! " she went on, as she 
saw me looking, apparently, for a hole to crawl 
into, but, in reality, for the broom, which, when I 
found, I made use of in putting into execution a plan 
I had formed for weighing the turkey at home. 

I hung the broom-handle to the gas-jet by a wire 
loop, and slid it along in the loop until it balanced. 
By this time all were curious to see what I was about. 

I then fixed a wire to the turkey's feet and hooked 
it so that it would slide on the broom-handle. Next 
I got a flat-iron and fixed it in the same way. 
When the broom was nicely balanced, I hung the 
turkey on the broom end of the stick, two inches 
from the balancing loop. Then I hung the flat- 
iron on the other side, and shoved it along until it 

balanced the turkey. Next I measured the dis- 
tances of the turkey and flat-iron from the balancing 
loop, and found that the turkey hung two inches 
and the flat-iron eight inches from the balancing 
loop. That was all. I had found the weight of 
the turkey, and told them : Twenty-four pounds. 

" Do you s'pose I 'm going to believe all that 
tomfoolery? It doesn't weigh more 'n twenty, I 
know. Here, Maggie ! Take this out and ask 
Albro to weigh it for you." 

" I 'm blamed if he has n't hit it about right," 
said the farmer who had brought the turkey. 
" How did you find out?" 

"Well, you see," said I, "the flat-iron has a 
figure 6 on it ; that shows that it weighs six pounds. 
Now, if the turkey had not weighed more than the 
flat-iron they would have balanced each other at 
the same distance from the balancing Ioor ; but 
the turkey was the heavier, so I had to move the 
flat-iron out further. At the same distance from 
the loop as the turkey (two inches), the flat-iron 
pulled six pounds' weight, and at every addition of 
that distance it would pull six pounds more. Thus : 
at four inches it pulled twelve pounds ; at six inches, 
eighteen pounds ; and at eight inches, twenty-four 
pounds. At that distance it just balanced the 
turkey, thus proving that it weighed " 

" Well, Maggie, what does Albro say ? " 

" Twenty-four poun', mum," replied Maggie, 
coming in. 

" Well, I give up," said Mrs. Simpson ; and she 
did, and so do I — till next time. 


By J. A. Judson. 

Once upon a time, in a snug little cottage by a 
brook under a hill, lived an old widow and her only 
child. She was a tidy, pleasant-faced dame, was 
" Old Mother Growser ; " and as to her boy, there 
was n't a brighter lad of his age in all the village. 
His real name was James, but he had always been 
so spry and handy that when he was a little bit of 
a chap the neighbors called him " Nimble Jim." 
At work in the cottage garden, or at play on the 
village green, even at his books and slate, he was 

ever the same industrious, active " Nimble Jim," 
and always a comfort to his mother. 

His father had been the village cobbler, and when 
he died the folks said : " Who '11 mend our shoes 
now, and auld Jamie gone?" 

Then up sprang the boy, saying: "I'll mend 
them, now father 's dead." 

The simple folks laughed at him. " Hoot ! toot ! 
lad," said they ; " ye canna mend shoes ! " 

But he answered bravely: "Am I not fifteen 




years old, and e'en a'most a mon ? Have n't I all 
father's tools ? Have n't I seen him do it day after 
day ever since 1 was a wee boy ? It 's time I was 
doing something besides jobbin' and runnin' and 
pretendin' to work ! I may take to th' auld bench, 
and e'en get my father's place among ye in time, 
so I be good enough. Mother canna alius be 
a-spinnin', spinnin', spinnin'. The poor old eyes 
are growing dim a'ready," — and Jim gently stroked 
her thin gray hair. 

" Ye 're a brave darlin', and my own handy 
Nimble Jim," said the fond mother, smilingly. 

"Ah, well, boy," the neighbors said, "be about 
it if ye will, for there 's no cobbler hereabout now, 
and the shoes must be mended. But ye '11 do the 
work fairly, mind, or we '11 no' pay ye a penny ! " 

" I '11 try my best, and bide your good favor, 
neighbors," was Jim's cheery answer. 

And so he succeeded to his father's old bench by 
the window, the lap-stone and hammer and awl ; 
and as he waxed his thread and stitched away, 
singing the old songs, the country folks passing by 
would listen, look at each other, smile and nod 
approvingly, or say : 

" Hark to that, friend ! One might think auld 
Jamie back again, with the whack o' the hammer 
and the blithe song, though the voice be n't so 
crackit like as th' auld one." 

"Aye, it's a bit clearer, but no happier. Auld 
cobbler Jamie was a merry soul," says one. 

"And the lad '11 prove worthy his father, I war- 
rant. Listen to the turn of that song, now ; I 've 
heard Jamie singin' it many a day," says another. 

" Whack ! whack ! thump-pet-ty crack ! 
In go the shoe-nails with many a smack. 
Zu ! zu ! pull the thread through ; 
Soon will the shoe be done, master, for you ! 

" Nay ! nay ! there 's nothin' to pay. 
If it is not mended as good as I say. 
I do my work honestly — that is the thing ; 
Then Jamie the cobbler 's as good as the king ! " 

And the folks passed on, or stopped to leave 
shoes to mend. 

Jim prospered in the old stall, and they called 
him " Nimble Jim, the Cobbler," for soon he was 
fairly installed as cobbler to the whole country-side. 
He was happy, and his old mother was happy, and 
proud, too, of the success of her boy, who was the 
light of her home and the joy of her heart. 

All day Jim worked away at his bench. Winter 
evenings he read his few books by the firelight ; in 
the cool of the summer days, or in the early morn- 
ings, he busied himself in the little garden. His 
vegetables were his pride, and for miles around no 
one had so trim a garden-patch, or so many good 
things in it, as Nimble Jim. 

Only one kind of all his plants failed to come 

to anything, — his melon-vines, — and these always 
failed. This began to grieve him sorely, for he 
was fond of melons ; and, besides, he thought if he 
could only raise fine ones, he might sell them for a 
deal of money, like gruff, rich old Farmer Hum- 

" Oh dear ! my melons don't grow like other 
folkses. They don't come up at all, or if they do 
they wither or spindle away," he said, losing his 
temper, and tearing up some of the vines by the 
roots. Then he went into the cottage, angrily, 
and began to pound away, driving in big hob-nails. 
With the twilight, his mother called him to the 
simple meal, but he was sullen and silent. 

"What be the matter with ye, my Nimble Jim?" 
asked the good dame, cheerily. 

" Matter enough, mother ! My melons wont 
grow ; there 's somethin' the matter with them. 
Faith, I believe some imp has cast a spell over 'em. 
I do, mother," quoth he, thumping the table with 
his fist until the dishes rattled. 

" Softly, softly, boy ! Where 's thy good nature 
gone ? " said Mother Growser, staring at him in 

" It be well enough to say ' Softly, softly,' " said 
he, " and I don't want to grieve ye, mother ; but 
it's naught with me but hammer, stitch, dig,— 
hammer, stitch, dig, — the day in, the day out, 
when I might be raisin' fine melons and sellin' 'em 
for mints of gold in the great city. Yea, mother, 
sellin' 'em e'en to the king and queen and all the 
grand lords and ladies at the court, like old Farmer 

For almost the first time in his life Jim was un- 

" I would you had your wish, Nimble Jim ; but 
then we 've a neat bit garden besides the melons ; 
and the home is snug, and you 're a good boy and 
the best o' cobblers. Can't you be happy with 
that, my lad ? " 

But Nimble Jim shook his head, for the spirit of 
discontent had taken possession of him. 

Now, for many days, Nimble Jim neglected his 
cobbling and let the weeds grow in his garden, 
while he moodily watched his melons as they 
withered away. Soon he came to idle about them 
in the evening, too, until, one bright moonlight 
night, as he was grieving over the wretched, scraggy 
vines, he heard a tiny, silvery voice quite near him 
cry, tauntingly : 

" Hello, Nimble Jim ! How are your melons ?" 

Jim would have been very angry at such a ques- 
tion could he have seen anybody to be angry with ; 
but, though he looked and looked with all his eyes, 
not a soul could he see. 

" Hello, Nimble Jim ! How are your melons? 
Ha, ha, ha! Melons! melons! Ha, ha, ha!" 




; :*V 

And the sweet little voice sang, in a merry, mock- 
ing strain : 

" Nice sweet melons ! 

Round ripe melons ! 
Nimble Jim likes them, I know. 

Mean sour melons, 

Crooked green melons, 
Nimble Jim only can grow! 

Ha, ha, ha ! How are your melons, Nimble Jim?" 

" Who are you ? What 
are you? Whereareyou?" 
cried Jim, hardly know- 
ing whether to be angry, 
amused, or frightened. A 

" You ask a good many 
questions at once, don't 
you ? " said the silvery 
voice. "Whozmll What 
am I ? Where am I ? Eh ! 
I 'm the Queen of the Elfs," 
said her tiny majesty, "and 
if you look sharply you '11 
see where I am." 

Just then a moonbeam 
streaming through the 
trees overhead fell across 
his path, and, dancing up 
and down on it, he saw 
the tiny elfin queen, — a 
lovely little creature with 
long, bright, wavy hair, 
and glittering garments 
fluttering in the breeze, 
wings like a butterfly, a 
mischievous smile on her 
face, and in her hand a 
wee wand tipped with a star, 
thing about her was the twinkle 
and-seek in her eye. 

Nimble Jim took off his hat and made a low bow. 

" Now, what is all this about ? — and why are you 
neglecting your work, sir ?" demanded she, sternly. 

Jim trembled beneath her royal gaze, little as 
she was, and replied humbly : 

" May it please your majesty, I wish I 'd some 
melon-seeds that 'd grow like magic. I am dead 
tired of being nothin' but a cobbler. I want to 
be a melon-merchant, and raise the finest, largest 
melons ever seen, — supply the whole kingdom with 
them, and grow to be as rich as the king himself." 

" Oh, you do, do you ? " she answered, laughing 
her merry little laugh, and capering up and down 
the moonbeam. "Oh! quite a modest youth! 
Well, I '11 make a bargain with you ; and if you 
will do something for me, you shall have your 
wish," said the queen. 

Nimble Jim was about to pour out his gratitude, 
when she interrupted him, saying: "Now, Nimble 





But the brightest 
that played hide- 

Jim, listen to me. Your wish is a foolish one, and 
I warn you that if you gain it you will be sorry. 
Why will you not be content as you are ? " 

" Your majesty," replied the obstinate youth, "I 
cannot be content as I am." 

" Well, since you insist on having your own 

way, we '11 make our bargain. Here," — and, sitting 

down on the moonbeam, she pulled off a shoe, — 

" here, sir, I want you to 

,:. mend my shoe. I tripped 

" ... .j, ji , just now on a rough 

,, N *;' L.,, v.; - v place in this moonbeam. 

^'-,' ( ' .-- ;'';• Mend the rip; show me 

, ... " > . ■ . you are a good cobbler, 

:*"••<' "'■. ■ k and I promise that you 

».";--;;-;" shall have your wish." 

"'" •' ;> ',""..•'■ "But, your majesty," 

.-\.~t ?;-'/-.» began Nimble Jim, taking 

the shoe, which was no 

bigger than a bean, " I 

can't sew such a little shoe ; 

my fingers are " 

" There, there ! Stop ! 
I 'm a queen, and people 
don't say ' can't' or 'wont' 
to me, sir," interrupted 
her majesty, with much 
dignity. " Take the shoe, 
and find a way to mend 
it. I will come for it to- 
morrow night at this same 
place and hour," and off 
she went up the moon- 
beam, half skipping, half 
flying, while Jim stood 
stupidly staring until she had entirely disappeared. 
Then he began, slowly: "Well, — I — never — in — 

all — my — life — saw — such — a " 

He said no more, but went in, and sat up all 
night, thinking how and where he could find needle 
and thread fine enough to do such a piece of cob- 
bling as this. About dawn a thought struck him. 
His mother thought he had gone crazy when she 
saw him chasing bees and pulling down spider- 
webs. Hours and hours he worked, and though 
his fingers were big, they were nimble, like his 
name ; so, by and by, with a needle made of a 
bee's sting and thread drawn from a spider-web, he 
sewed up the rip in her fairy majesty's dainty shoe. 
He hardly could wait for the hour of meeting, 
but went into the garden, with the shoe in his 
hand, long before the time. At length, the queen 
came sliding down the moonbeam, laughing and 
singing : 

" Hello, Nimble Jim ! How are your melons ? " 

But he was not angry now ; he only laughed 

respectfully, made a profound bow, and said : 




" May it please your majesty, I have mended 
your majesty's shoe." 

The merry little queen took it from him, looked 
at it closely, saying to herself: " Humph ! I did n't 
think lie could, but he did," — and, turning to Jim, 
said, much more graciously than before : " I sup- 
pose you think yourself quite a cobbler ; and so you 
are — for a mortal. Since you have done your work 
so well, I will do as I said. Now," she continued, 
handing him a little package about as big as a baby's 
thumb, " plant these melon-seeds, and " 

"Are these little things melon-seeds? They 
look too small," interrupted Jim, — for he had made 
no ceremony, even in the queen's presence, about 
peeping into the package, — and it must be con- 
fessed that they were very small indeed. 

"Certainly they are, or I would not tell you so. 
They are the magic melons of fairy-land. As I 
was about to say when you rudely interrupted, 
plant " 

"I beg your pardon, your majes " 

" Will you keep still? Was there ever such a 
chatterbox ! " said she. " I say, plant these melon- 

of melons and wealth, she skipped away up the 
moonbeam, singing: 

" Nimble Jim is quite demented, — 
Wants to be a melon-king ! 
Silly mortal! net contented 

With the riches home-joys bring! 
Oh! ho! 
Oh ! ho ! 
He will be sorry to-morrow : 
To-morrow will bring only sorrow." 

But Nimble Jim heeded her not. This night 
also he could not close his eyes, and in the early 
morning he hastened to tell his mother their good 
fortune. She looked grave, and said : 

" Ah, my lad ! 1 'd rather you minded the cob- 
bler's bench, nor trafficked with fairies. I fear me 
they're uncanny folks to deal with." 

" Never fear, mother ; we '11 be rich yet, and I '11 
make you a queen yourself, and then you need 
spin no more," said Jim, wild with hope and ex- 

" I don't mind the spinnin', my boy. I 'd rather 
be " 

Jim heard no more, for he- dashed off at once to 



seeds to-morrow at sunrise, and you will have your the garden to plant his precious seeds just at sun- 
wish, foolish boy." And, while Jim was thinking rise. With furious energy, he tore up all his old 




vines, flung them over the fence, and, after that, 
spaded up the melon-bed with the greatest care. 
Then he opened the paper and poured the magical 
seeds into his hand. 

There were only four — four wee seeds, each no 
bigger than a pin's head ! His first impulse was 
to fling them away in wrath, for he thought such 
little things could n't possibly make as big a fortune 
as he wanted. But then he reflected, " Fairies are 
little, so I suppose their seeds are little, too. I '11 
try them, anyhow." And with that he put them in 
the ground and carefully covered them. 

In an instant, the ground burst open in four 
places, and up shot four sturdy melon-vines, that 
grew east, west, north, south ! 

Grew ? No ! they raced, they tore, they dashed 
through the country far and wide ! In no time, 
before Nimble Jim could get back to the house 
door, the whole yard was full of melon-vine, and 
one great big melon, bigger than the cottage itself, 
blocked the door-way. 

"Oh ! oh ! oh !" roared Jim. "What have I 
done ? What shall I do ? " And with his spade 

It grew like mad. On ! on ! Stem, branch, 
leaf, tendril, fruit — on, on it went ! The melons 
grew — great, round, smooth, rich, ripe, juicy mel- 
ons, as big as houses — at the cross-roads, on the 
roads, in the fields, filling barn-yards and door- 
yards so people and cattle could n't pass, or go in 
or out, till they had eaten their way through the 
melons, or got ladders and climbed over, or dug 
trenches and crawled under ! On, on it went, sur- 
rounding the king's palaces and choking up his 
forts ! Down, down it grew into the brooks and 
rivers, and out into the king's harbors, where the 
tendrils seized and wound about his ships of war 
riding at anchor, and climbed up the masts, while 
melons grew on the decks till the vessels sank to 
the bottom ! It choked up and drank up all the 
rivers and lakes in the kingdom, or dammed them 
up so the waters overflowed the land, drowning 
people and cattle, and sweeping away houses and 
barns ! 

On, on it grew — melons, melons everywhere ! 
Ruin and starvation stared the nation in the face ; 
while poor, poor Nimble Jim, hid within the rind 


%£&^w<? iV)-. 


he cut a hole through the melon. It took him a 
whole hour, and when he got into the house he 
found that his poor mother had fainted from fright. 

And all the time the vine and melons kept grow- 
ing — east, west, north, south. 

Nimble Jim was frantic ! 

But the vines did n't mind Jim. On they went, 
growing like mad, a mile a minute, faster than any 
railroad train. The big arms filled up the main 
roads ; the smaller ones crammed themselves into 
the lanes and by-paths, while the tendrils embraced 
the tall trees, the houses, and the church steeples, 
and snarled up everything. The leaves grew so 
large, thick and green that they covered the whole 
face of the country, shutting out the sun from the 
fields so the crops could n't grow ; and the whole 
kingdom became so dark from the awful shade of 
Nimble Jim's magic melon-vine, that the people 
had to burn candles day and night. 

of the melon he had dug out, shivered, cried and 
bewailed his folly. 

"I'll be killed! I'll be killed! The people 
will murder me ! " he shrieked. But no one of 
them all save his mother knew he had had any- 
thing to do with bringing on the dire calamity 
that had befallen the kingdom. 

Then some of the people proposed : " Let us go 
immediately to our king, and ask him to make a 
law that the vine shall stop growing ere it ruin us 

But when they had eaten and hewed their way to 
the palace, they found the king had gone to count 
his soldiers ; and while he was gone the vine came 
galloping along, and an enormous melon grew and 
blocked up the palace gate. So they had to help 
the king and his guards force their way through to 
the hall of audience. 

When they all were in, and the king had wiped 

i8 77 .) 



the melon-juice off his robes and crown, and was 
fairly seated on his throne, surrounded by his 
guards and courtiers, the trumpets sounded, drums 
beat, banners waved, and the people fell on their 
knees and said : 

" O mighty king ! We, thy liege subjects, have 
come to tell thee of the ruin and desolation this 
fearful vine maketh in all thy great kingdom, and 
to entreat thy majesty to enact a law forbidding 
it to grow any more, and commanding it to wither 
away. " 

"Alas!" answered the troubled king, "what 
can I do ? No law of mine can stop this awful 
thing. It is an enchanted vine sent to torment us. 
Hear me, my people ! Proclaim it, ye my heralds ! 
I pledge my kingly word to give up my crown and 
kingdom, and change places with any one of my 
subjects who will wither and instantly sweep away 
this direful vine. I, your king, am as helpless as a 
child to stop it." 

And the king, who was a good old man, shed 
tears for the misery of his people, and commanded 
the queen and all the court to dress themselves in 
mourning and fast night and day. 

The people got home as best they could, and 
each fell to thinking how he could stop the vine 
and so be king. Even Nimble Jim heard of this. 
So, every night, he watched, hoping to see the 
elfin queen. At last she came, as before, on her 
moonbeam footpath, saying : " Hello, Nimble Jim ! 
How are your melons by this time?" 

But he was in no mood to be facetious now. He 
only said, humbly : 

" May it please your majesty, what can I do to 
stop the growth of this horrible vine, and instantly 
sweep it from the face of the earth ? Help me, I 
beg your gracious majesty ! " — and Jim knelt be- 
fore her. 

" Ha, ha ! Nimble Jim don't seem to like mel- 
ons ! I told you you 'd be sorry," laughed the 
little elfin queen. "I suppose you still want to 
be as rich as the king ? Or perhaps you would 
like to be the king himself?" said she, tauntingly. 

"Of course I would, your majesty," said Jim, 
" if the vine can only be stopped." 

"You are a very good cobbler, Nimble Jim," 
she answered, " and since you mended my shoe so 
nicely, and as the king has promised to exchange 
with any one who will wither and destroy the vine, 
and as you might as well be king as another (and 
as you need a good lesson," said she to herself), 
" I give you the means to do it all ! " 

And the tiny queen pulled off the mended shoe, 
and cried : " Here, you silly boy ! Take this and 
run to the palace. Once there, you need touch but 
a tendril with this magic shoe, and the vine will 
wither and disappear, and the crown and kingdom 

will be yours. I wish you joy of both. Good-bye ! 
You will learn contentment yet, poor Jim, I hope," 
she added, as he ran out of hearing, with the 
precious little shoe in his hand. 

Leaving his poor mother behind, for he had for- 
gotten all about her during these days, Jim set off 
for the palace. It was a long, hard journey, on 
account of the melon-vines, that not only blocked 
the road, but even chased him. Many a narrow 
escape had he from being crushed to death in the 
embrace of some young tendril that would shoot 
out, wriggling and writhing toward him like a great 
green serpent. 

At length, he arrived at the palace gate, which 
in old times was marble, but now was only a hole 
that had been cut through a melon. 

" Halt ! Who goes there ! " shouted a sentinel, 
thrusting his spear in front of Jim's panting breast. 

" It 's only Nimble Jim, the Cobbler. I want to 
see the king," said the boy. 

" Be off, you fellow ! " shouted the sentry. " Our 
noble king don't hob-nob with cobblers ! Be off, I 

say, or " And he shook his spear at our hero 


" Hold, there ! " shouted the king himself, strain- 
ing out of a window to look between the melon- 
leaves. " Hold, I say ! What do you want, young 
cobbler ? " 

" I want your crown and kingdom, sire," boldly 
answered Jim. "I 've heard of the new law, and 
I '11 stop the melon-vine." 

"Let him pass, guards," shouted the king; 
" and send him hither." 

A little page dressed in black led Jim to the 
throne-room. The king and his court no longer 
blazed in gold and jewels. Black covered every- 
body and everything, even the golden throne itself, 
and grief and dismay were on all faces. 

Then said the king, in a hollow tone : " What 
know you of this vine ? Speak ! " 

And Jim, tremblingly, told the whole story. 

" Wicked boy ! " groaned the king. " You well 
deserve punishment for the ruin you have brought 
on the land. But I have passed my royal word, 
and you shall try to destroy the vine. If you suc- 
ceed, bad as you are, you then will be the king and 
I the cobbler. But if you fail, you shall be put 
where you shall have nothing but melons to eat for 
the rest of your days. Guards, take him away ! " 

That night, before the king and queen and all 
the assembled court, when the moon was fairly 
risen, Nimble Jim touched with the toe of the 
magic shoe the end of a tendril that was running 
rapidly up a tower. 

In an instant, every vestige of the vine vanished 
throughout all the palace grounds ; and in the 
morning the people all over the country shouted 




for joy and cried with one voice : " Let us all go up 
to the coronation, for to-day we have a new king 
who has delivered us from the horrible vine." 

And on ihey came, in hordes, till the capital was 
full and the country about the palace was one vast 
camp, while throughout the kingdom not a trace 
of the vine was to be seen. 

Then the nobles and prelates prepared for the 

Meanwhile, the poor, faithful old king, who 
cheerfully had given up all for his people, was 
hammering and stitching and digging away on 
Jim's cobbler-bench off in the village ; and Jim's 
mother, whom the naughty boy, in his strange 
elevation, had forgotten all about, tenderly cared 
for the humbled old monarch. 

Before long, the elfin queen saw how patient the 


coronation. It was magnificent. They girt Jim 
with the sword of state, clothed him in the imperial 
robes, placed the scepter in his hand, and, as the 
golden crown descended upon his head, all the 
people shouted : 

" Hail, King Nimblejimble, our deliverer ! Long 
live the king ! " 

And the silly boy was happy. 

old king and Jim's mother were, and how badly 
Nimble Jim was behaving now he was king, for he 
was given up to all sorts of wickedness and tyranny, 
was fast becoming hated by every one, and himself 
was beginning to see that he was not nearly so 
happy as he had been while he was a cobbler. 

Jim was really good at heart, only his unreason- 
able discontent with his lot had got him into all 




this misery. At last, he began to repent, and, one 
moonlight night when he was walking alone on the 
palaje terrace, he said : 

" I wish I could see that little elfin queen, and I 
would ask her to let me go back home again." 

" Well, here I am ! " said the silvery voice ; and, 
sitting on a moonbeam beside him, there she was. 
" Tired of being king, Jim ? " she asked. 

" Yes, your majesty, indeed I am," he replied. 

"Want any more melons, Jim?" said she, 

" No, no, no ! " groaned Jim. " No more ! " 

" How is your mother, Jim?" asked her majesty, 

"Alas ! I don't know," — and he hung his head 
in shame. 

" Are you ready to go and see her, Jim ? " she 
asked, gently. "And will you be contented now ?" 

" Yes, yes ! " was his eager reply. 

Now, the old king had been mending shoes all 
day, and was at this moment resting in the cottage 

porch, when, suddenly, he was whisked away on a 
cloud and landed in his palace again. His crown 
was popped on his head, and the scepter thrust in 
his hand, while his old chamberlain tenderly tucked 
him up in bed. 

At the same instant, another cloud brought back 
Nimble Jim to his bench and his faithful mother, 
who at once made him some oat-meal porridge 
without a murmur or word of reproach. 

" There ! " said the elfin queen to herself. " That 
boy is cured of his silly notions." 

" Mother, I think I don't care much for melons. 
I wont plant any more," said Jim next morning. 

" I don't like 'em myself, lad," said the mother. 
" I 'd a deal rather you 'd stick to the bench, like 
your auld father." 

" I will, mother dear," answered Nimble Jim. 
And he is mending shoes there to this day, as 
happy as happy can be. 

' Oh ! I 'm my mamma's lady-girl 
And I must sit quite still ; 
It would not do to jump and whirl. 
And get my hair all out of curl, 
And rumple up my frill. 
No, I 'm my mamma's lady-girl, 
So I must sit quite still." 




Hints for Girls and Boys, Little and Big.* 

HO is it that every year 
invents the thousand-and- 
one new and pretty things 
which hang on Christmas- 
trees, and stuff the toes 
of Christmas stockings ? 
Who is it that has so 
wise and watchful an eye 
for the capacities of little 

big girls not afraid to dive will find plenty of elabo- 
rate designs suited to their taste and powers. 

Here, to begin with, is something nice for papa's 
pocket : 

A Postage-Stamp Holder. 

Cut two pieces of perforated board, or of stiff 
morocco, two inches long by one and a half wide, 
and stitch them together, leaving one end open. 
If you choose the board, a little border in cat-stitch 

bigger ones, providing for each, planning for tiny 
purses with almost nothing in them, as well as 
for fat wallets stuffed with bank-bills, and sug- 
gesting something which can be made, accepted 
and enjoyed by everybody, large and small, all the 
wide world over ? Who can it be that possesses 
this inexhaustible fertility of invention and kindness 
of heart? No ordinary human being, you may be 
sure. Not Father Santa Claus ! He has enough 
to do with distributing the presents after they are 
made ; besides, fancy-work is not in a man's line,— 
not even a saint's ! But what so likely as that he 
should have a mate, and that it is to her we are 
indebted for all this ? What an immense work- 
basket Mother Santa Claiis's must be ! What a 
glancing thimble and swift needle and thread 1 
Can't you imagine her throwing aside her scissors 
and spool-bag to help the dear saint "tackle up" 
and load the sledge ? And who knows but she sits 
behind as he drives over the roofs of the universe 
on the blessed eve, and holds the reins while Santa 
Claus dispenses to favored chimneys the innumera- 
ble pretty things which he and she have chuckled 
over together months and months before the rest 
of us knew anything about them ? 

This is not a fact. It can't be proved in any way, 
for none of us knows anything about the Santa 
Clauses or their abode. There is no telegraphing, 
or writing to the selectmen of their town to inquire 
about them ; they have n't even a post-office ad- 
dress. But admitting it to be a fiction, it is surely 
a pleasant one; so, as the children say, "Let's 
play that it is true," and proceed to see what 
Mother Santa Claus has in her basket for us this 
year. We will first pull out some easy things for the 
benefit of little beginners who are not yet up to all 
the tricks of the needle ; then some a little harder 
for the more advanced class ; and, at bottom of all, 

people, and the tastes of or feather-stitch should be worked before putting 

the pieces together, and, if you like, an initial in the 
middle of one side. If the morocco is chosen, an 
initial in colored silk will be pretty, and the edges 
should be bound with narrow ribbon, and over- 
handed together. 

Cut two other pieces of the material a quarter of 
an inch smaller than the first. Bind the morocco 

with ribbon. Make 
a fastening at one 
end with a ribbon 
loop ; place the 
stamps between the 
two, and slip the 
little envelope thus 
filled into the outer 
case, the open end 
down. It fits so 
snugly that it will 
not fall out in the 
pocket, and is eas- 
ily drawn forth by 
means of the loop 
when papa wants to 
get at his stamps. 
A letter-case for papa's other pocket : This can 
be made either of morocco, oiled silk, or rubber 
cloth. Cut an envelope-shaped piece, about an 
inch larger all round than an ordinary letter enve- 
lope. Bind the edges, work an initial on one side, 
and for a fastening use a loop of elastic braid. 

Sand-Bags for Windows. 
These are capital presents for grandmammas 
whose windows rattle in winter weather and let cold 
air in between the sashes. You must measure the 
window, and cut in stout cotton cloth a bag just as 
long as the sash is wide, and about four inches 
across. Stitch this all round, leaving one end 


* The present paper will enable our young friends to make over seventy different articles for Christmas gifts. While a few familiar things 
may be found among them, a great majority of the objects are entirely novel, and are here described for the first time. All who may wish 
for still further hints in regard to home-made Christmas presents will find very many useful suggestions in the paper "One Hundred Christ- 
mas Presents, and How to Make Them," published in St. Nicholas for December, 1875— Vol. III. 




open, and stuff it firmly with fine, dry sand. Sew 
up the open end, and slip the bag into an outer 
case of bright scarlet flannel, made just a trifle 
larger than the inner one, so that it may go in 
easily. Lay the sand-bag over the crack between 
the two sashes, and on cold nights, when you are 
asleep, grandmamma will rejoice in the little giver 
of such a comfortable bulwark against the wind. 

Rack for Tooth-Brushes, in Rustic-work. 

This is very simple, but it is pretty as well. Cut 
two straight spruce twigs, each having two or three 
little branches projecting upward at an angle of 
forty-five degrees. These twigs must be as much 
alike in shape as possible. Place them six inches 
apart ; lay two cross-twigs across, as you see them 


in the picture, and tie the corners with fine wire, 
or fasten them with tiny pins. Two diagonal braces 
will add to the strength of the rack. Hang it to 
the wall above the wash-stand by a wire or ribbon. 
The tooth-brushes rest on the parallel branches. 

For further particulars concerning spruce-wood 
work, see St. Nicholas, Vol. III., pp. 114 and 115. 

Miniature Hanging-Shelves. 
Boys who have learned to use their pocket- 
knives skillfully may make a very pretty set of 
hanging-shelves by taking 
three bits of thin wood (the 
sides of a cigar-box, for in- 
stance), well smoothed and 
oiled, boring a hole in each 
corner, and suspending them 
with cords, run in, and knot- 
ted underneath each shelf 
as in the picture. The wood 
should be about eight inches 

MINIATURE HANGING- , , , . , ° , , 

shelves. . long by three wide, and the 

shelves, small as they are, will be found convenient 
for holding many little articles. 

Another idea for these graduates of the knife is 
this falchion-shaped paper-cutter. It can be made 


of any sort of hard-wood, neatly cut out, rubbed 
smooth with sand-paper, and oiled or varnished. 
It has the advantage that the materials cost almost 
nothing. Suggestions for more elaborate articles 
in wood will be given further on. 

A Wall Letter-Holder. 

This is something which quite a little boy could 
make. Cut out three pieces of thin wood, a foot 
long by six inches wide; smooth, and sand-paper 
two of them, bore a hole in each corner and in the 
middle of one side, and fasten them together with 
fine wire, cord, ribbon, or the small brass pins 
which are used for holding manuscripts. The 
pieces should be held a little apart. Cut one end 
of the third piece into some ornamental shape, glue 
it firmly to the back of one of the others, and sus- 
pend it from the wall by a hole bored in the top. 
It will be found a useful thing to hold letters or 
pamphlets. A clever boy could make this much 
handsomer by cutting a pattern over the front, or 


an initial, or monogram, or name in the middle. 
The wood should be oiled or shellacked. 


These cases are meant to take the place of paper 
when shoes are to be wrapped up to go in a trunk. 
They are made of brown crash, bound with red 
worsted braid. One end is pointed so as to turn 




over and button down, or the top has strings over 
the braid to tie the mouth up. There should be 


three or four made at a time, as each holds but one 
pair of shoes ; and you will find that mamma or 
your unmarried aunts will like them very much. 

A nice present for a skating boy — and what boy 
does not skate ? — is a bag made much after the 
pattern of the shoe-case just described, only larger 
and wider, and of stouter material. Water-proof 
cloth or cassimere is best. Sew it very strongly, 
and attach a string of wide braid, or a strong elastic 
strap, that the bag may be swung over the shoulders. 
A big initial letter cut out in red flannel and button- 
holed on will make a pretty effect. 

A Scallop-Shell Album. 
Young folks who are fortunate enough to have a 
pair of good-sized scallop-shells (picked up, per- 
haps, at the sea-side during the last summer vaca- 


tion), can make a very pretty little autograph 
album in this way : 

Take a pair of well-mated scallop-shells. Clean 

them with brush and soap. When dry, paint them 
with the white of egg to bring out the colors, and 
let them dry again. Now insert between the shells 
a dozen or more pages of writing-paper, cut of the 
same shape and size as the shells, and very neatly 
scalloped around the edges. Then secure the whole 
loosely, as shown in the picture, by means of a 
narrow ribbon passed through two holes previously 
bored in the shells. Of course, holes also must be 
pierced in the sheets of paper to correspond with 
those in the shells. 

A Little Nun. 
This droll figure is cut out in black and white 
paper. Fastened at the end of a wide ribbon, it 
would make an odd and pretty book-mark. The 
black paper should be dull 
black, though the glossy will 
answer if no other can be pro- 
cured. Fig. I of the diagrams 
is cut in white, a rosary and 
cross being put in with pen 
and ink, and is folded in the 
middle by the dotted lines, 
the head and arms being 
afterward folded over, as in- 
dicated. Figs. 2, 3, 4, 5 and 
6 are cut in black and pasted 
into place, leaving a narrow 
white border to the bonnet, 
a mite of white band at the 
end of the sleeve, and a sug- 
gestion of snowy stocking 
above the shoe. Fig. 6, cut 
double, forms a book, which can be pasted to look 
as if held in the hand. 

Bean-Bag Cases. 
Are there any of you who do not know the game 
of bean-bags ? It is capital exercise for rainy days, 
besides being very good fun, and we would advise 
all of you who are not familiar with it to make a set 
at once. Usually, there are four bags to a set, but 
any number of persons from two to eight can play 
at bean-bags. Each player holds two, flinging to 
his opponent the one in his right hand, and rapidly 
shifting the one in his left to the right, so as to 
leave the left hand free to catch the bag which is 
thrown at him. A set of these bags would be a 
nice present for some of you little girls to make for 
your small brothers ; and there are various ways 
of ornamenting the bags gayly and prettily. The 
real bags must first be made of stout ticking, over- 
handed strongly all round, and filled (not too full) 
with white baking-beans. Over these are drawn 
covers of flannel, blue or scarlet, and you can work 
an initial in white letters or braid on each, or make 






each of the four bags of a different color — yellow, 
blue, red, green ; anything but black, which is 
hard to follow with the eye, or white, which soils 
too soon to be desirable. 

Baby's Shoes in Cashmere. 
Babies who can't vvalk are particularly hard on 
their shoes ! We once heard of one who "wore 
out" nine pairs in two months ! In these circum- 
stances, it seems very desirable to have a home 
shoe-maker, and not have to frequent the shops too 
often ; so we will tell you of an easy kind, which 
almost any little sister can make. You must take 
an old morocco shoe which fits, and cut out the 
shape in paper, first the sole, and then the upper. 
Then cut the same shape in merino or cashmere, 
line the little sole with Canton flannel or 
silk, and bind it with very narrow ribbon. 
Line and bind the upper in the same 
way, and feather-stitch round the top and 
down both sides of the opening in front ; 
sew on two ends of ribbon to tie round 
the ankle, and the shoe is done. It will 
look very pretty on baby's pink foot, and 
he will thank you for your gift in his 
own way, by kicking his toes joyfully, 
and getting the shoes into his mouth as 
soon as possible. 

A Hemlock Pillow. 

It is rather late in the year to make 
these pillows, but you can try them for 
next Christmas. They must be prepared for 
beforehand by gathering and drying a quantity of 
the needles of the hemlock, the fine ones from the 
ends of the young shrubs being the best. Make 

a large square bag of cotton, stuff it full of the 
needles, and inclose it in an outer case of soft thick 
silk or woolen stuff. The one from which we take 
our description had " Reve du foret " embroidered 
on it in dull yellow floss, and we don't believe any 
one could help dreaming of the forest who laid a 
cheek on the pillow and smelled the mingled spice 
and sweetness of its aromatic contents. 

Sachets for Linen-Closets. 
If you have any old-fashioned lavender growing 
in your garden, you can easily make a delightful 
sachet for mamma to lay among her sheets and 
pillow-cases in the linen-closet, by cutting a square 
bag of tarletane or Swiss muslin, made as tastefully 
as you please, and stuffing it full of the flowers. 
Another delightful scent is the mellilotte, or sweet 
clover, which grows wild in many parts of the 
country, and has, when dried, a fragrance like that 
of the tonquin-bean, only more delicate. 

Tissue-Paper Mats. 

We like to be able to tell you about these mats, 
or they cost almost nothing at all, and are so 
simple that any little boy or girl can make them. 
All the material needed for them is three sheets of 
tissue-paper, — a light shade, a medium shade, and 
a dark shade, or, if you like, they can also be made 
of one solid color, but are not quite so pretty then. 
Cut a piece of each color nine inches square, fold 
it across, and then across again, so as to form a 
small square, and then fold from point to point. 
Lay on it a pattern, like the first diagram on next 
page, and cut the tissue paper according to the lines 
of the pattern. Opening the paper, you will find 
it a circle, with the edge pointed in scallops. Now 
take a common hair-pin, bend its points over that 


they may not tear the paper, slip it in turn over each 
point, as shown in the diagram, and draw it down, 
crinkling the paper into a sort of double scallop. 
(The second diagram on next page will explain this 

4 6 



process.) Treat your three rounds in this way, lay So much for the dear little people. Our next 
them over each other like a pile of plates, stick a dip into Mother Santa Claus's basket brings out a 

big handful for girls (and boys) who are a trifle 
older,— say from twelve to fifteen. 

Hair-Pin Holders. 

On the next page is a picture of the hair-pin holder 
when finished ; and above it you will find a diagram 
of it when cut out and not yet put in shape. It is 
cut, as you will observe, in one piece. The mate- 
rial is perforated card-board, either white or "sil- 
ver." The dotted lines show where to fold it. 

a, a and b, B are lapped outside the end pieces, 
D, D, and held in place by stitches of worsted, long 
below and very short above, where the sides join. 
A little border is worked in worsted at top and 
bottom before the sides are joined. The inside is 
stuffed with curled hair, 
and topped with a little 
cover crocheted or knit 
in worsted — plain rib- 
bing or the tufted cro- 
chet, just as you pre- 


small pin in the middle to hold them, set a goblet 
upon them, and gently arrange the crinkled edges 
about its base, so as to give a full ruffled effect, like 
the petals of a dahlia, although less stiff and regu- 
lar. These mats are exceedingly pretty. 

A Work Basket in Vanilla Grass. 
If any of you live where the sweet-scented vanilla 
grass grows plentifully, you can make a delicious 
little basket by drying the long wiry blades, braid- 
ing them in strands of three, tying the ends firmly 
together to make a long braid, and coiling and sew- 
ing as in straw plaiting. Two circles the size of a 
dessert plate should be prepared, one for the bottom 
of the basket, and the other for the top of the lid 
(the latter a trifle the larger). Then draw the braid 
tighter, and form a rim to each about two inches 
deep. The lid, which is separate, fits over the 
bottom, and the scent of the grass will impart 
itself to everything kept in the basket. 


fer. A cord and a small worsted tassel at either 
end complete it, and it is a convenient little thing 

i8 77 .J 



lo hang or stand on mamma's or sister's toilet- "Cap-a-pie" (From head to foot). "Ad ogni 
table. It will be an easy matter to enlarge the ucello, sito nido e bello" (To every bird its own 
pattern, if this hair- 
pin holder would be 
too small. 

A Crib-Blanket 
for Baby. 

The prettiest and 
simplest crib -blanket 
which we have seen of 
late, was made of thick 
white flannel, a yard 
wide, and a yard and 
a quarter long. Across 
each end were basted 
two rows of scarlet 
worsted braid, four 
inches apart, and be- 
tween the two a row 
of bright yellow braid. 
These were cat-stitched 
down on both edges 
with black worsted, and 
between them were 
rows of feather-stitch- 
ing in blue. Above, in each corner, was a small nest is beautiful). And here is one in English : 
wheel made of rows of feather-stitch— black, red, ., shut liuI= eyeS| and shut m the blue . 

yellow and blue. Nothing could be easier to make, Sleep, little baby, God loves you." 

but the effect was extremely gay and bright, and „, . , , , ,. r ,, ,. , . 

• The same idea can be beautifully applied to a pair 

of large blankets, but this is rather a considerable 

gift for young people to undertake. 

Summer Blankets. 

A pair of thin summer blankets, of the kind which 
are scarcely heavier than flannel, can be made very 
pretty by button-holing them all round loosely with 
double zephyr wool in large scallops, and working 
three large initials in the middle of the top end. 

A Work-Basket for "Sister." 
For this, you must buy a straw basket, flat in 
shape, and with- 
out a handle. It 
can be round, 
square, oval, or 
eight-sided, just 
as you prefer. 
You must also 
buy a yard of 
silk or cashmere 
in some pretty 
color. Line the 
whole basket, 

f. r -f n f n ]| r t END 0F HAIR-PIN HOLDER WHEN FOLDED. 

ting the shape of the bottom exactly, and fasten- 
ing the lining down with deft stitches, which shall 


we advise some of you who are lucky enough to 
"belong to a baby" to try it. 

Another Baby's Blanket. 
For this you must buy a real blanket — one of the 
small ones which come for use in a baby's crib. 
Those with blue stripes and a narrow binding of 
blue silk are prettiest for the purpose. Baste a 
narrow strip of canvas between the stripes and the 
binding, and with blue saddler's silk doubled, work 
in cross-stitch a motto, so arranged that it can be 
read when the top of the blanket is folded back. If 
the stripe is red instead of blue, the motto must 
be in red silk, and it should, of course, have 
reference to the baby. Here are some pretty 
ones in various languages : "Nun guten ruh, die 
augen zu" (Now go to sleep, and shut your eyes). 

4 8 



show neither inside nor out. Make four little 
pockets of the stuff (six if the basket is large), draw 
their tops up with elastic cord, and fasten them 
round the sides at equal distances. These are to 
hold spools of silk, tapes, hooks-and-eyes, and such 
small wares, which are always getting into disorder 
in a pocketless basket. Between two of the pockets 
on one side, suspend a small square pincushion, and 
on the other a flat needle-book hung by a loop of 
ribbon. At the opposite ends, between the pockets, 
fasten an emery bag and a sheath of morocco bound 
with ribbon to hold a pair of scissors. Finish the 
top last of all with a quilling of ribbon, and you 
have as dainty and complete a gift as any younger 
sister can wish to make, or any older one receive. 
It will cost time and pains, but is pretty and useful 
enough to repay both. 

A Fancy Wheelbarrow. 

This cannot be made easily by any boy or girl 
who is not already acquainted with fancy wood- 
sawing, and to such the illustration gives all the 
hint that will be needed. We would simply sug- 
gest that the body of this barrow is about six inches 
long, that it is lined with crimson silk, and that 
standing upon a dressing-bureau, writing-table, or 
mantel-shelf, it makes a very pretty receiver of 


cards or knick-knacks. Many beautiful Christmas 
gifts can be made by boys or girls owning one of the 
little bracket-saws, which, with books of directions, 
can now be bought in almost any hardware shop. 

For further particulars on wood-carving, see illus- 
trated articles in St. Nicholas, Vol. I., pp. 84, 
215. 346, 592- 

A Set of Tea-Napkins. 

There hardly could be a nicer gift for a girl to 
make for her mother or married sister than a set 
of tea-napkins, with a large initial letter in white, 
or white and red, embroidered on each. The 
doily should be folded in four, and the letter out- 
lined in lead pencil in the corner of one of the 
quarters. If inked very black on paper, and held 

dry to the window behind the linen, the initial 
is easily traced. The pattern is then run and 
"stuffed" with heavy working-cotton, and the let- 
ter embroidered in finer cotton. Another nice gift 
is a long fringed towel, with three very large letters 
in white, or blue, or crimson, worked half-way 
between the middle and the side edge. Folded 
over lengthwise, it is a convenient thing to lay on 
a bureau-top or the front of a sideboard, and the 
large colored letters make it ornamental as well. 
Patterns of initials can be bought in any fancy shop. 
If desired, they can be bought already worked, re- 
quiring only to be transferred to the napkin. 


Any of you who have mastered cross-stitch, and 
learned to follow a pattern, will find these bands 
easy enough to make. Their use is to fasten a 
napkin round a child's neck at dinner, and take the 
place of that disobliging "pin," which is never at 
hand when wanted. You must cut a strip of Java 
canvas, two inches wide by a foot long ; overcast 
the edges, and work on it some easy little vine in 
worsted, or a Grecian pattern, or, if you like, a 
short motto, such as "More haste, worse speed." 
Line the strip with silk, turn in the edges, over- 
hand them, and finish the ends with two of those 

gilt clasps which are used to loop 

up ladies' dresses. 

A Rustic Vase. 

It is very easy to get the mate- 
rial out of which this vase is made. 
You need only go to your wood- 
pile, or, if you have none, to the 
wood-pile of a neighbor. Choose 
a round stick four inches in diam- 
eter and eight or ten inches long, 
with a smooth bark. If you find 
the stick, and it is too long, you can 
easily saw off an end. Now comes 
the difficult part of the work : The inside of the 
stick must be scooped out to within four inches of 
the bottom. The easiest way of accomplishing this 
will be to send it to a turning-mill if there is one at 
hand ; if not, patience and a jack-knife will in the 
end prevail. Next, with a little oil-color, paint a 
pretty design on the bark, if you can, — trailing- 
arbutus, partridge berry, sprays of linnea, — any 
wood thing which can be supposed to cluster natu- 
rally round a stump. Set the stump in a flower- 
pot saucer, filled with earth, and planted with 
mosses and tiny ferns ; fit a footless wine or cham- 
pagne glass, or a plain cup, into the hollow end, 
and, with a bunch of grasses and wild flowers, or 
autumn leaves, you have a really exquisite vase, 
prettier than any formal article bought in a shop, 

■ 877-1 



and costing little more than time and patience, with a touch of that rare thing — taste ! which, after al 
is not so very rare as some people imagine. Any friend will prize such a vase of your own makinj 

A Table-Cover. 
A really charming cover for a small table can be made in this way : Cut a square — or oblong, 
as the case may be — of that loosely woven linen which is used for glass-towels, making it , 
about four inches larger all round than the table it is meant to fit. Pale yellow or brown / ^- 
is the best color to select. Ravel the edges into a fringe two inches deep ; then, begin- 
ning two inches within the edge, draw the linen threads all round in a band an inch y . -^_, 
and three-quarters wide. Lace the plain space thus left with dark-red ribbon /A^^y, 
of the same width, woven in and out in regular spaces, and at eai h ornei /a^^^Y, 
tie the ribbon in a graceful knot with drooping ends. 

Another Table-Cover. 

This cover is made of pale-brown Turkish toweli 
of the size to suit your table, and baste all round it, 
scarlet worsted braid, then of olive, then of yellow, lea 
each an inch and a half wide between the rows. . Cat-: 
braids down on both edges with saddlers' silk, and fe 
stitch between them in silks, choosing colors which \ 
monize, and turning the whole into a wide stripe b 
liant and soft at the same time. The choice and 
placing of the colors will be excellent practice for 
your eye, and after a little while you will b 
able to tell, as soon as a couple of inches 
are done, if yen are putting the right tint s j^ 
into the right place, ll is infiniteh / ^■^^'^ 
more interesting to feel vour way / ^^&*^m 
thus through a piece ol work S £^5 **y 
than to follow an) pal / £Sv a^^ 

tern, however pretty, and it is >v ^- '^*^\s 
far more cultivating to the taste. \ «»• *^^ 
A Paper Transparency. 

Take a piece of white, or tinted, or 
silver paper, exactly ten and a half inches 
square. Fold it double diagonally. Fold it 
double again. Fold it double once more 

You will now have a triangular-shaped form of 
eight thicknesses. Now lay this folded piece on 
pine table, or on a smooth piece of pine board. Next 
lay evenly over it, so that it will fit exactly, the " patt 
of transparency," or an exact tracing from it. When so 
secure them firmly to the board by pins driven in at each corner. 
Now, with a very sharp pen-knife follow and cut through to the 
board the lines of the pattern, so as to cut out all the portions that 
show black in the design. When this is all done, pull out the pins 
open your folded paper, and you will have a square form beautifully 
figured in open-work. It should be laid between two sheets of white paper 
and carefully pressed with a hot iron, and then it can be lined with black or 
fancy tissue paper, and hung against a pane in the window as a "transparency 
or you may use it as a picture-frame, inserting an engraving or photograph in the center. 

The original, from which our pattern is taken, was cut during the late war by a young 
Union soldier while in Libby prison. 


These bags are capital things to save a shawl from the dust of a journey, and, if of good siz 
can be made to serve a useful purpose by packing into them dressing materials, etc., for which 
there is not room in your hand-bag. The best material for them is stout brown Holland. Cut two 
round end-pieces eight inches in diameter and a piece half a yard wide by twenty-four inches long 

VOL. V.— 4. 

ipe urn- / A^Kkr Ja A^B-JBB \ 





Stitch these together, leaving the straight seam 
open nearly all the way across, and bind its edges 
and the edges of the end-pieces with worsted braid 
(maroon or dark brown), put on with a machine. 
Close the opening with five buttons and button- 
holes. Bind with braid a band of the Holland two 
inches wide, and fasten it over the button-holed 
side, leaving a large loop in the middle to carry 
the bag by. 

By way of ornament you may embroider three 
large letters in single-stitch on the side, using 
worsted of the color of the braid, or may put a 
pattern down either side 
of the opening and round 
the ends in braiding, or 
a braided medallion with 
initials in the center. 

A Japanese Basket for 
You will never guess 
what the top of this droll 
little basket is made of, 
unless we tell you. It is 
one of those Japanese 
cuffs of brown straw 
which can be bought now- 
adays for a small price at 
any of the Japanese shops. 
You may embroider a lit- 
tle pattern over it — diag- 
onally, if you wish to make 
it look very Japanese-y ; 
line it with silk or satin, 
and fasten a small bag of 
the same material to the 
bottom, drawn up with a 
ribbon bow or a tassel. 
A band of wide ribbon is 
sewed to the top. Grand- 
mamma will find this just 

JAPANESE HANGING-BASKET OF the t h ing t0 hang On her 

arm for holding her knit- 
ting-ball, or the knitting itself if she wishes to lay 
it aside. This sort of basket also is useful as a 
"catch-all " when hung at the side of a dressing- 

A Catch-all, Made from a 
Single Square. 
This is very pretty, and very easily made. Take 
a piece of silver (or gold) perforated paper, eight 
inches square, and ornament it with worsted or 
silk, as in the diagram, all in one direction. To 
make the cornucopia, it is only necessary to join 
any two edges (as A and B) by first binding each 
with ribbon and then sewing them together. Line 
with silk, and put box-plaiting at the top. A 

worsted tassel might be put at the top (in front) as 
well as at the bottom, and a loop at C. 

If silver paper is used, 

the trimmings would bet- 

h (l ter be all red. All blue 

would look well with gold 

paper. But the colors may 











be varied according to 
taste. If your friend is a 
brunette, you will find that 
he or she will be most 
pleased with the red, while 
a blonde will prefer blue. 

A Wall-Pocket of Splits. 

Splits, or cigar-lighters as they are sometimes 
called, are to be had at any of the fancy shops. 

i ft 


They are an inch wide and about seven inches 
long, and come in various shades of brown and 




straw color, and their flexibility makes it easy to 
weave them in and out like basket-work. For the 
wall-pocket you must weave two squares, each con- 
taining six splits each way, but one made larger 
than the other, as seen in the picture. A few 
stitches in cotton of the same color will hold the 
strips in place. Line the 
smaller of the squares with 
silk, and lay it across the 
face of the other in such 
a way that the four points 
shall make a diamond, 
touching the middle of 
each side of the square. 
Fasten it to the wall by 
two of the splits crossed 
and united by a bow of 
ribbons, and fill the pocket 
with dried autumn leaves 
and ferns gracefully ar- 

Silhouette Like- 

This is rather a Christ- 
mas game than a present, 
but will answer well for 


leaves of black broadcloth or silk to receive the ink, 
and finish the top with a small bow of ribbon. 

A Birds'-Nest Pen-Wiper. 
Girls are always trying to find something which 
they can make to delight their papas, and a gay little 
pen-wiper with fresh un- 
inked leaves rarely comes 
amiss to a man who likes 
an orderly writing-table. 
Here is a pretty one which 
is easily made. For the 
pattern you may borrow a 
moderately large beech- 
leaf from the nearest tree 
(or botanical work) ; lay 
it down on paper, pencil 
the outline and cut it out 
neatly. Repeat this six or 
eight times in black cloth 
or velvet, and sew the 
leaves round a small oval 
or circle of black cloth. 
Knit and ravel out a quan- 
tity of yellow worsted or 
floss silk, and with it con 
struct a nest in the center 

either ; and young folks can get much fun out of of the oval, putting a hen into the nest. This hen 

an evening spent in " taking " each other. Each in 
turn must stand so as to cast 
a sharp profile shadow on the 
wall, to which is previously 
pinned, white side out, a large 
sheet of paper, known as sil- 
houette paper, black on one 
side and white on the other. 
Somebody draws the outline 
of this shadow exactly with a 
pencil ; it is then cut out and 
pasted neatly, black side up, 
on a sheet of white paper. 
•Good and expressive like- 
nesses are often secured, and 
Try it, some of you, in the 

may be made of canton flannel, stuffed with cotton- 
wool and painted in water color, with a comb of 
red flannel, two black beads for eyes, and a tuft of 
feathers by way of tail. But better still and much 
easier, buy one of the droll little Japanese chicks 
which can be had at the shops now for twenty or 
twenty-five cents, and fasten it in the middle of the 


droll ones very often. 

long evenings which are coming 

A Leaf Pen-Wiper. 
Your pattern for this must be a beech-leaf again, 
, — a long one this time, — or you may trace the shape 
from the illustration. Outline the shape as before, 
and from the model thus secured cut six leaves in 
flannel — two green, two brown, and two red, or 
red, white and blue, or any combination you like. 
Snip the edge of each leaf into very tiny points, 
and chain-stitch veins upon it with gold-colored 
floss. Attach these leaves together by the upper 
ends, arranging under them three triply pointed 


nest. Three plain circles of cloth are fastened 
underneath for wiping the pens. 

Japanese Pen-Wiper. 
A nice little pen-wiper can be made by cutting 
three circles of black cloth, snipping the edges or 

5 2 



button-holing them with colored silk, and standing 
in the middle one of the droll little Japanese birds 
just mentioned. Of course it should be secured 
firmly at the feet. There are long-legged birds 
and short-legged ones. A tiny stork is very pretty. 

Bleached Grasses. 

Some of you who have been pressing autumn 
leaves for winter use may like to hear of a new way 
of bleaching grasses to mix with them. The proc- 
ess is exceedingly simple. 
Take a few of the grasses 
in your hand at a time, dip 
them into a pan of water, 
shake gently, dip into a pan 
of sifted flour, and again 
shake gently. All the super- 
fluous flour will fall off, but 
enough will remain to make 
the grasses snowy-white. 
When dry it is perfectly 
firm, and you would never 
guess what process produced 
the effect. A bunch of these 
white grasses in a coral-red 
basket is a vivid object. 

Colored grasses, to our 
thinking, are not half so 
pretty as the same grasses 
when left in their own soft 
natural browns and yellows. 
Still, as some people like 
them, we - will just men- 
tion that the same process 
can be used for them as for 
the white grass, by mixing 
with small portions of flour, 
a little dry paint powder, 
vermilion, green, etc. A 
bunch of the deep red mixed 
with the bleached grass has 
a gay and uncommon effect. 

A Nube in Two Colors. 
A novelty in knitting is a 
nube in Shetland wool of 
two colors — pink or crimson or blue with white. 
The skeins are opened, and the two strands, laid 
side by side, are wound double in a large ball. The 
nube is then knit in the usual way with large 
needles and common garter-stitch, and is very fine. 

Lamp Shades. 

Plain white porcelain lamp-shades, such as are 

used on the German student-lamps, look well when 

decorated with wreaths of autumn leaves put on 

with mucilage, We read lately in the Tribune 


that leaves treated with extract of chlorophyl be- 
came transparent. This would be a fine experi- 
ment for some of you to try, and a garland of the 
transparent leaves would be much more beautiful 
around a shade than the ordinary dried ones. 

There are other styles of lamp-shades that can 
be made with little difficulty, for instance : A 
very pretty shade is easily formed by cutting in 
thin drawing-board fine scalloped sections, which, 
tied together with narrow ribbon, take the form 
of a shade. Leaves are 
glued to the under side of 
these, and a lining of thin 
tissue-paper is pasted on to 
hold them in place. Still 
another is made in the same 
way, with doubled sections 
of card-board, between each 
pair of which is laid a steel 
engraving or wood-cut, or 
an unmounted photograph. 
The pictures are invisible 
till the lamp is lighted : 
then they gleam forth with 
something of the soft glow 
of a porcelain transparency. 

A Glove-Box. 

In any of the fancy shops 
you can now buy the slender 
frames of silvered tin on 
which these boxes are made. 
Cut out double pieces of 
pale-tinted silk to fit the 
top, bottom, sides and ends, 
and quilt each separately 
with an interlining of cotton 
batting, on which sachet- 
powder has been lightly 
sprinkled. Slip the pieces 
between the double rods of 
the frame, sew over and 
over, and finish with a 
plaited satin ribbon all 
round, adding a neat little 
loop and bow to lift the lid. 
The small tin boxes in which fancy biscuits are 
sold can be utilized for glove-boxes, covered as you 
choose on the outside, and lined with wadded silk. . 

Another Glove-Box. 

This box can be made in very stiff card-board, 
but tin is better if you have the pieces which form its 
shape cut by the tinman, and punched with holes 
in rows an inch and a half apart. If you use card- 
board, you must punch your own holes, measuring 
the places for them with rule and pencil. In either 

i8 7 7-l 



case, you will need the same number of pieces and 
of the same size, namely : two strips one foot long 


and five inches wide, two strips one foot long and 
three inches wide, and two strips five inches long 
and three inches wide. Cover each piece with a 
layer of cotton wadding, sprinkled with sachet 
powder, and a layer of silk or satin of any color you 
prefer. Then catch the silk firmly down through 
the holes in the tin, making long stitches on the 
wrong side, and small cross-stitches on the right, 
so as to form neat regular tufts. A very tiny but- 
ton sewed in each depression has a neat effect. 
When the inside of the box is thus tufted, baste the 
pieces together, cover the outside with black or 
dark silk or satin, embroidered or ornamented in 
any way your fancy may dictate, overhand the 
edges daintily, and neatly finish with a small cord. 
Square boxes made in the same way are pretty 
for pocket-handkerchiefs. 

A Coal-Scuttle Pin- 
This droll little scuttle 
is made of black enamel 
cloth, cut according to the 
diagrams on next page. 
Fig. I is cut double and 
folded over at G. The 
two sides marked B and E 
in Fig. I are bound with 
black galloon ; also the two 
sides marked with the 
same letters in Fig. 2. 

Before binding over, cast 
a bit of wire around the 
top and one around the 
bottom of the scuttle, and 
bend each into its proper 
shape. Figs. 3 and 4 are 
bound all round, and sewed over and over to the 
places indicated. Wrap two bits of wire, one four 
inches long and the other an inch and a quarter, with 
black worsted, and insert them through little holes 
made for the purpose to serve as the handles of the 

' 1 

























1 1 . 








scuttle ; stuff the inside firmly with hair or cotton- 
wool, cover the top with flannel, cut after Fig. 4, 
and button-hole the edges down all round 
with worsted of the color of the flannel. If 
you like to add a needle-book you can do so 
by cutting three leaves of differently colored 
flannels, after the shape of Fig. 4, snipping 
the edges into points, or button-holing 
them, and fastening the leaves to the back 
of the scuttle above the pincushion. 

A Bit >>¥ Plain Work. 

There are notable little sempstresses even 
in these days of machines ("and I am 
thankful to know that there are," says 
Mother Santa Claus) who set their stitches as 
swiftly and as precisely as ever their grandmothers 
did before them, and have the same liking for what 
used to be called " white seam." To such we would 
suggest, what 
a nice and use- 
ful Christmas 
present would 
be a beauti- 
fully made un- 
der - garment. 
It need not of 
necessity be a 
shirt, though in old days no girl was considered 
educated who could not finish one all by herself, 
from cutting out to the last button-hole ; but an 
apron or petticoat or dress- 
ing-jacket or night-gown, 
over which little fingers 
had labored deftly and 
lovingly, would, it seems 
to us, be a most wonderful 
and delightful novelty for 
mamma or grandmamma 
to find on the Christmas- 
tree this year. A set 
of handkerchiefs nicely 
hemmed and marked (girls 
used to cross-stitch the 
marks in their own hair !), 
or a soft flannel petticoat, 
cat-stitched at the seams, 
scalloped with coarse work- 
ing cotton, — which grows 
whiter with washing, in- 
stead of yellowing like 
silk, — with three pretty 
initials on the waistband, would be other capital 
ideas. Try them. 

Work Aprons. 
The great convenience of these aprons is that the 
work can be rolled up in them and laid aside for 




white floss. Stitch the veins in the leaves with the 
floss, held tightly, so as to depress the lines a little. 
Cut three leaves of flannel in the same shape, but- 
ton-hole the edges, lay them between the leaves, 
and fasten all together at top with a bow of ribbon. 
A tiny loop and button should be attached to the 
point to hold the needle-book together. . 

-Part of Pattern of Coal-Scuttle 

Fig. 3. — Bottom of Coal- 

Fig. 4.— Top of Coal-Scuttle. 

use. They are made of brown Holland trimmed 
with black or blue or crimson worsted braid. Little 
loops of doubled braid ornament the edge, and are 
held in place by a plain row of the braid stitched 
on above them. The lower and largest pocket 
should be made full and drawn up with a cord at 
top, so as to hold rolls of pieces, worsteds and pat- 
terns. The little pockets are for spools of silk and 
thread, tapes, buttons, and so on. 

A Leaf Needle-Book. 

For this needle-book you will need the following 
materials : One-eighth of a yard of crimson or 
green velvet, one-eighth of a yard of lining silk to 
match, one-eighth of a yard of fine white flannel, 
two skeins of white silk floss, a bit of Bristol-board, 
and a half yard of narrow ribbon. 

Cut in the Bristol-board a couple of leaf-shaped 
pieces like the illustration. Cover each with the 

A large lace-like cross hanging from the end of a 
wide ribbon makes a handsome and appropriate 


velvet, turning in the edges neatly, line with the 
silk, and button-hole both together all round with 


mark for a big bible or prayer-book. The 
materials cost almost nothing, all that is re- 
quired being a bit of perforated card-board, 
a sharp penknife, and — patience. Trace the 
form of the cross on the card-board, and out- 
line the pattern on one side in pencil. You 
will observe that the one given as illustration 
is made up of small forms many times re- 
peated, and this is the case with all patterns 
used for this purpose. The easiest way to outline it 
regularly is to do a square of eight holes at a time, 




marking the places to be cut, and leaving the un- 
cut places white. When all is marked, place on a 
smooth board and cut, following the markings 


exactly with your knife. The work cannot be hur- 
ried : it must be done slowly and very carefully if 
you hope to succeed. 

And now we will turn out the more difficult 
things from the bottom of the basket, and you big, 
clever boys and girls who can do what you like 
with your fingers and knives and needles and 
paint-brushes, can take your pick from them. 

Autumn-Leaf Work. 

If you have an old work-box, or desk, or table- 
top, or screen, which has grown shabby, and which 
you would like to renew, we can tell you how to do 
so. First, you must take those generous friends, 
the woods, into your counsel. Gather and press 
every bright, perfect leaf and spray which comes 
in your way this autumn, and every graceful bit of 
vine, and a quantity of small brown and gold-colored 
ferns, and those white feathery ones which have 
blanched in the deep shadows. These ready, paint 
your box, or whatever it is, with solid black, let it 
dry, rub it smooth with fine sand-paper, and repeat 
the process three times. Then glue the leaves 
and ferns on, irregularly scattered, or in regular 
bouquets and wreaths, as suits your fancy. Apply 
a coat of isinglass, dissolved in water, to the whole 
surface, and when that is dry, three coats of copal 
varnish, allowing each to dry before the next is put 
on. The effect is very handsome. And, even 
without painting the objects black, this same style 
of leaf and fern-work can be applied to earthen 
vases, wooden boxes, trays and saucers, for card- 
receivers. For these, you may get some good 
hints from the illustrations on subsequent pages. 
The same illustrations will apply to the ''novelties 
in fern-work " given further on. 

A Window Transparency. 

Another pretty use for autumn leaves is a trans- 
parency for a window. Arrange a group of the 
leaves upon a pane of glass, lay another pane of 
same size over these, and glue the edges together, 
first with a strip of stout muslin, and then with 
narrow red ribbon, leaving a loop at each upper 
corner to hang it up by. The deep leaf colors 
seen against the light are delightful. 

Side-ught Transparencies. 

Any of you who happen to live in a house which 
has, like many old houses, a narrow side-light on 
either side of its front-door, and a row of panes 
across the top, can make a pretty effect by prepar- 
ing a series of these transparencies to fit the door- 
glasses, and fastening them on by driving a stout 
tack into the sashes so as to support the four corners 
of each pane. The transparencies could be pre- 
pared secretly and put into place overnight, or on 



Christmas morning, before any one is up. so as to 
give mother a pleasant surprise as she comes down- 

A Frame of Autumn Leaves. 
Procure an oblong bit of tin, eight inches by ten, 
or ten inches by twelve, and have a large oval cut 




out in the middle. Paint the tin with two coats of 
black, glue a small group of leaves in each corner, 

with a wire spray 
or tendril to con- 
nect them, varnish 
with two coats of 
copal, and put a 
small picture ber 
hind the oval. 

A Frame of 
Cut a pasteboard 
frame three inches 
wide of the size 
you need, and sew 
thickly all over it 
little sprays of 
maiden-hair ferns, 
pressed and dried. 
It is fastened to 
the wall with a 
pin at each cor- 
ner, and of course 


does not support 
a glass. The effect of the light fern shapes against 
the wall is very delicate and graceful, and unsub- 
stantial as it may seem, the 
frame lasts a long time, es- 
pecially if, when the maiden- 
hair first begins to curl, the 
whole is taken down and 
re-pressed for two or three 
days under a heavy book. 

Novelties in Fern- 

We hope some of you have 
collected a good supply of 
ferns of the different colors, 

and good eyes, but with practice and patience any 
of you could manage it. Supposing it to be a 
table-top which you wish to ornament, you proceed 
as follows : Paint the wood all over with black or 
very dark brown ; let it dry, and rub it smooth 
with pumice. Next varnish. And here comes the 
point of the process. While the varnish is wet, 
lay your ferns down upon it, following a design 
which you have arranged clearly in your head, or 
marked beforehand on a sheet of paper. A pin's 
point will aid you to move and place the fragile 
stems, which must not be much handled, and must 
lie perfectly flat, with no little projecting points to 
mar the effect, which when done should be like 
mosaic-work. As soon 
as the pattern is in place, 
varnish again immedi- 
ately. The ferns, thus 
inclosed in a double wall 
of varnish, will keep their 


— deep brown, yellow, green and white, — for by 
means of a new process you can make something 
really beautiful with them. It requires deft fingers 


places perfectly. Next 
day, when all is dry, var- 
nish once more. Small 
articles of white holly- 
wood decorated in this 
way are very pretty, and 
a thin china plate with an 
overlaying of these var- 
nished ferns becomes 
a beautiful and orna- 
mental card-receiver. 

A Shoe-Chair. 
An old cane -seated 
chair will answer per- 
fectly to make this, pro- 
vided the frame-work is 
strong and good. Cut away the cane and insert in 
its place a stout bag of twilled linen, the size of the 
seat and about ten inches deep. Around this bag 
sew eight pockets, each large enough for a pair of 
shoes. The round pocket left in the middle will 
serve to hold stockings. Have a bit of thin wood 





cut to fit the seat of the chair ; fasten on this a 
cushion covered with cretonne, with a deep frill all 
around (or a narrow frill, provided you prefer to 
fasten the deep ruffle around the chair itself, as 
shown in the picture), and a little loop in front by 
which the seat can be raised like the lid of a box, 
when the shoes are 
wanted. This chair 
is really a most con- 
venient piece of furni- 
ture for a bedroom. 

Scrap-Bags in 
Turkish Towel- 

These are conven- 
ient little affairs. 
Hung on the gas- 
fixture beside a look- 
ing-glass, or on a 
hook above the work- 
table, they will be 
found just the things 
to catch odds and 
ends, such as hair, 
burnt matches, ravel- 
ings and shreds of 
cloth, which are al- 
ways accumulating, 
and for which many 
city bedrooms afford 
no receptacle. The materials needed are three- 
quarters of a yard of pale-brown Turkish toweling, 
six yards of red worsted braid, four steel rings (to 
hold the. strings), one-eighth of a yard each of blue, 
white, and scarlet cashmere, a skein each of blue, 
red, green, yellow, and black worsted, and a small 
red tassel in chenille or silk. 

Cut four pieces of the toweling, twelve inches 
long and six and a half wide, and shape them 
according to diagram. 

Bind each around with braid. Cut out a shape 
in cashmere of the three colors laid one over the 
other, and button-hole it on with worsted, contrast- 

stitched in blue and white lines, C feather-stitched 
in white and yellow. The daisy-like flower above 
is white, with a yellow center and a green stem, 
and the long lines of stitching on either side are in 
red and black. Some of these bags are very pretty. 
This bag could be simplified by using no cash- 
mere, and feather- 
stitching each quar- 
ter diagonally across 
with alternate black, 
red, and yellow lines. 

Another Scrap- 
The upper part of 
this bag is made of 
silver perforated pa- 
per. Buy a strip a 
foot long and six 
inches wide, and em- 
broider it all over in 
alternate lines of cross 
and single stitching, 
using single zephyr 
worsted, blue or rose- 
colored. Cut a piece 
of stiff card-board of 
exactly the same size, 
and line it with pink 
or blue silk to match 
the worsted. Sew the 
two ends together to form a circle, lay the silver 
paper smoothly over it, stitch down, and trim both 
edges with plaited satin ribbon three-quarters of 
an inch wide. 

This is the top of your bag. The bottom is 
crocheted in worsted by the ordinary long stitch, 
and sewed to the silver-paper top piece under the 
satin ribbon. A worsted tassel finishes the lower end. 

Artistic Embroidery. 

Just here a word to the girls about embroidery. 
In old days, when embroidery was the chief 
occupation of noble dames and demoiselles, the 



ing the shades in as gay and marked a manner as 
possible. In the design given, A is white cashmere, 
B red, and c blue. A is button-holed with green, 
B with black, and C with vellow. B is chain 

needle was used as a paint-brush might be, to 
make a picture of some real thing or some ideal 
occurrence. For instance : the Bayeux tapestry, 
worked in the eleventh centurv bv Matilda, wife 




of William the Conqueror, and her ladies, is a 
continuous series of pictures, two hundred and 
fourteen feet long by about two feet wide, which 
represent scenes in the 
invasion and conquest of 
England. Old as it is, the 
colors are still undimmed 
and brilliant. Even so 
lately as the last century, 
ladies designed their own 
patterns, and embroid- 
ered court dresses and 
trimmings with flowers 
and birds copied from 
nature. But for many 
years back fancy-work 
lias degenerated into the 
following of set models, 
without exercising any 
" fancy " of one's own at 
all. Now the old method 
is come into fashion 
again, and it means so 
much more, and is so 
vastly more interesting 
than copying a cut-and- 
dried pattern from a 
shop, that we long to set 
you all to trying your 
hands at it. For ex- 
ample, if you want a 
cushion with a group of 
daisies, gather a handful 
of fresh ones, — take a 
bit of linen or china 
crape, or fine crash or 
pongee, and, with green and white and gray and 
gold-colored silks, make a picture of the daisies 
as they look to you, not using any particular kind 
of stitch, but employing long ones or short ones, 
or loose or tight ones, just as comes most easily in 
giving the effect you want to get. This is much 
nicer than counting the stitches on a paper pattern 
and a bit of canvas, and when done, produces a 
much better effect. Even in winter, a real flower 
or a fern-spray, by way of model, can always be 
found in the flower-shops or greenhouses. Prac- 
tice will stimulate invention and suggest all sorts 
of devices and ideas. Bits of pretty stuffs will catch 
your eye as adaptable for use, and oddly tinted 
silks (the old, faded colors often work in better 
than fresh ones), patterns on fans, on rice paper, 
on Japanese pictures — all sorts of things — will serve 
as material for your fancy. And when your work 
is done it will be original, and, as such, more 
valuable and interesting than any shop model, how- 
ever beautiful in itself, can possibly be. 




Oriental Work. 

Very gay and quaint effects are produced with 
this work, which is an adaptation of the well-known 
Eastern embroideries. Its ground-work is plain 
cashmere or flannel, red, black or blue, on which 
small fantastically shaped figures in variously col- 
ored velvets or cashmeres are laid and button- 
holed down with floss silks. All sorts of forms are 
employed for these figures — stars, crescents, circles, 
trefoils, shields, palm-leaves, griffins, imps; and 
little wheels and comets in feather-stitch and cat- 
stitch are inserted between, to add to the oddity of 
the whole. These forms can be bought at a low 
price in almost any fancy shop. A good deal 
of ingenuity and taste can be shown in arranging 
and blending the figures richly and brilliantly, 
without making them too bright and glaring. 
Table-covers in this work should have falls of 
deep points, pinked on the edges. Smaller points 
of white cashmere are sometimes inserted between 
the deep ones, and similarly decorated. Bright 
little tassels are swung between the points by 
twisted silk cords. The tassels are made of strips 
of scarlet and white flannel, cut almost across, in 
narrow fringes, rolled into shape, and confined by 
a tiny heading of flannel embroidered with silk. 
Sofa-pillows in this Oriental work are bright and 
effective, also wall-pockets and brackets — in fact, it 
can be applied in many ways. The bracket shapes 
must be cut in wood, and topped with flannel, the 
embroidered piece 
hanging across the 
front like a mini- 
ature drapery. 

Bedside Rugs. 

The prettiest bed- 
side rug which we 
ever saw was made 
in part of a snow- 
white lamb's-wool 
mat. This was laid 
in the center of 
a stout burlap, 
which projected 
six inches beyond 
the fleece all 
around, and was 
bordered with a 
band of embroid- 

ery on canvas six 
inches wide, the 
whole being lined vase, painted black and ornamented 
with flannel and WITH FEMS <^tumn-leaf work). 
finished with a cord and a heavy tassel at each cor- 
ner. A simpler rug is made of brown burlap, with 
a pattern in cross-stitch, worked in double zephyr 

i8 7 7-J 



worsteds of gay colors. Initials, or a motto, can 
be embroidered in the middle. The burlap can 
be fringed out around the edges for a finish. 

A Rag Rug. 

An effective rug can be made in this way : Cut 
long inch-wide strips of cloths, flannels, and vari- 
ous kinds of material (widening the strip, however, 
in proportion as the fabric is thinner. Sew the 
ends together so as to make one very long strip, 
which, for convenience' sake, can be loosely wound 
up in a ball. Then, with a very large wooden 
crochet-needle, you crochet a circle, a square, or 
oblong mat of this rag-strip, just as with cotton or 
worsted. It makes a strong, durable, and, with 
bright and tasteful colors, a very pretty rug. 

A Screen. 

A folding clothes-horse with two leaves, such as 
is used in laundries, makes the foundation for this 
screen. The wood is painted solid black, and 
covered inside and out with very yellow unbleached 
cotton, stretched tightly over the frame, and held 
down by black upholstery braid fastened on with 
gilt nails. A design in flowers, leaves, birds, 
double circles, crescents, and parallel bars, to imi- 
tate the Japanese style of decoration, is painted in 
oil colors on the cotton, and a. motto on the wood 
along the top. If the motto is arranged to read 
backward, the foreign effect of the whole will be 
enhanced. We have seen a striking screen of this 
sort made by a little girl who, as she could not 
paint in oil colors, decorated the surface with 
figures of various kinds cut from Japanese picture- 
papers, such as are now sold for from ten to twenty 
cents in the Japanese goods shops. Her figures 
were so well pasted and arranged, that the screen 
was one of the prettiest things in the bedroom. 

Screens covered with pictures cut from maga- 
zines and illustrated newspapers are very much 
liked by boys and girls, and by some of their elders. 

A Couvre-Pied. 
This is a large oblong in loosely knitted double 
zephyr wools, and is made double, dark brown on 
one side, for instance, and pale blue on the other. 
The two are united with a border in open crochet 
of the brown, laced through with light blue ribbon, 
which is finished at each corner with a loosely tied 
bow and ends. The couvre-pied, as the name 
indicates, is meant to cover the feet of a person 
who lies on a' sofa, and is an excellent present to 
make to an elderly or invalid friend. 

Tile or China Painting. 
Don't be frightened at the word, dears. China- 
painting is high art sometimes, and intricate and 

difficult work often, but it is quite possible to pro- 
duce pretty effects without knowing a great deal 
about either china or painting. Neither are the 
materials of necessity expensive. All that you need, 
to begin with, are a few half tubes of china or min- 
eral paints, which cost about as much as oil colors, 


four or five camel's-hair brushes, a palette-knife, a 
small phial of oil-of-lavender, and another of oil-of- 
turpentine, a plain glazed china cup or plate or tile 
to work on, and either a china palette or another 
plate on which to rub the paints. For colors, 
black, capuchine red, rose-pink, yellow, blue, green 
and brown are an ample assortment for a novice 
and for purposes of practice. We would advise 
only two tubes, one of black and one of rose pink, 
which are colors that do not betray your confi- 
dence when it comes to baking. For the chief 
difficulty in china-painting is that to be permanent 
the work must be " fired," — that is, fused by a 
great heat in a furnace, — and it requires a great 
deal of experience to learn what the different tints 
are likely to do under this test. Some colors — 
yellow, for instance — eat up, so to speak, the colors 
laid over them. Others change tint. Pinks and 
some of the greens grow more intense ; white can- 
not be trusted, and mixing one paint with another, 
as in oils, can only be done safely by experts. It 
is well, therefore, to begin with two simple colors, 
and you will be surprised to see how much may 
be done with them. (See " Hollenberry Cup," in 
St. Nicholas for May, 1877, page 458.) A cup 
of transparent white china, the handle painted 
black, a Japanese-looking bough with black foliage 
and pink blossoms thrown over it, and a little motto, 
has a really charming effect. But be sure to put 
on the pink very pale, and the black, not in a hard, 
solid streak, but delicately, to suggest shading from 
dark to light, or the result of the baking will be 

The method of preparing the colors is to squeeze 
a very little paint from each tube upon your palette 
or plate ; take a tiny drop of oil-of-lavender on the 
palette-knife, and with it rub the paint smooth. It 




should be thinned just enough to work smoothly ; 
every drop of oil added after that is a disadvantage. 
Use a separate brush for each color, and wash them 
thoroughly with soap and hot water before putting 
them aside. The painting should be set away 
where no dust can come to it, and it will dry rapidly 
in fortv-eight hours or less. Elaborate work often 


requires repainting after baking, the process being 
repeated several times ; but for simpler designs 
one baking is usually enough. There are bakeries 
in Boston, New York, and others of our large cities, 
to which china can be sent, the price of baking 
being about ten cents for each article. 

Other Modes of Decorating China. 

The picture-books which are to be found at the 
Japanese stores nowadays suggest numberless ex- 
cellent designs for china decorating. So do the 
"Walter Crane Fairy-tales." A plain olive or 
cream-colored tile with a pattern in bamboo-boughs 
and little birds, a milk-jug in gray with leaves and 
a motto in black, a set of tiny butter-plates with 
initials and a flower-spray on each, are easy things 
to attempt and very effective when done. Pie- 
dishes can be ornamented with a long, sketchy 
branch of blossoms or a flight of swallows across 
the bottom, and we have seen those small dishes 

of Nancy ware, in which eggs are first poached and 
then served on table, made very pretty by a paint- 
ing on each of a chicken, done in soft browns arid 
reds, With a little line to frame it in and run do'-n 
along the handle. What we have mention :d 
here are only suggestions : a little patience and 
practice will soon help you to other patterns of 
your own, and we can't help 
hoping that some of you will 
be tempted to try your hands 
at this delightful art. 

Drawing and Painting 

on Wood. 
Articles in plain white wood 
can be bought almost any- 
where nowadays. Pen-trays, 
letter-racks, easels, paper- 
knives, photograph-frames, 
watch-cases, needle-books, 
portfolios, glove-boxes, fans, 
silk-winders — there is no end 
to the variety which can be 
had, and had at a very mod- 
erate price. Now, any girl 
or boy among you with a 
paint-box and a little taste for 
drawing, can make a really 
pretty gift by decorating some 
one of these wooden things, 
either in color or with pen 
drawings in brown or black. 
The pattern need by no 
means be elaborate. A 
wreath of ivy simply out- 
lined in sepia or india-ink, or 
a group of figures sketched 
with the same, produces a very pleasing and har- 
monious effect. " Prout's Brown," a sort of fluent 
ink of a burnt-umber tint, will be found excel- 
lent for drawing purposes. For designs, our own 
St. Nicholas will furnish excellent examples. 
Scarcely a number but holds something which a 
clever artist can adapt to his purpose. The " Miss 
Muffett " series, for example, or the silhouettes, or 
the sea-side sketches, or the ornamental borders 
and leaf-and- flower headings. Look over your 
back numbers, and you will see how rich they are 
in subjects for copies. 

Here is a suggestion for such of you as live by 
the sea, and who know something about drawing. 
Search for clam-shells on the beach, and select the 
whitest and most perfectly formed. Separate the 
two shells, cleanse them thoroughly, and make on 
the smooth pearly lining of each a little drawing in 
sepia. It will serve as a receiver to stand on a 
lady's toilet and hold rings and trinkets, or it can 

i877- : 



be used as an ash-holder by a smoking gentleman, 
or to contain pens on a writing-table. 

A Shoe-Chair Made of a Barrel. 

Another shoe-chair as nice as that pictured on 
page 56 can be made out of a barrel by any girl 
who has a father or big brother to help her a little 
with the carpentering. The barrel is cut as in 
Fig. 1 below, so as to form a back and a low front. 
The back is stuffed a little, and covered with chintz 
nearly down to the floor. The front has a deep 
frill tacked on all around the chair. Four blocks 
are nailed inside the barrel to support a round of 
wood, stuffed and cushioned with the same chintz, 
to serve as a seat. 

A straight shoe-bag, with eight pockets, is made 
in the same chintz, and tacked firmly all around 
the inside. A loop of the chintz serves to raise the 
seat. Four castors screwed to the bottom of the 
barrel will be an improvement, as the chair without 
them cannot easily be moved about. About five 
yards of chintz will be required for the covering ; or 
you might use the merino of an old dress. 

A Muslin Tidy. 

Three-quarters of a yard of clear French muslin 
will be needed for this. Lay a large dinner-plate 
down on the muslin, draw the circle made by its 

muslin ruffle, five inches wide and a little less than 
twice as long as the measure. Roll one ecU*e finely, 


and overhand on a plain lace footing an inch and a 
half wide. Whip the other edge, and sew it round 
the circle, graduating the fullness equally. 

Baste a bit of lace footing three-quarters of an 
inch wide in the middle of the circle, giving it the 
form of a bow-knot with two ends. 
The lace must be bent and folded 
into the form, but not cut. Run 
the edges with embroidery cotton, 
and button-hole all round. Then, 
with sharp scissors, cut away the 
muslin underneath, leaving the 
bow-knot transparent on a thicker 
ground. Dry-flute the ruffle. This 
little affair is very dainty and odd, 
one of the prettiest things which we 
have seen lately. 

An Illuminated Border for a 

St. Nicholas has given us of 
late such precise directions for the 
process of illuminating in color,* 
that it is not needful to repeat them ; 
but we should like to suggest an idea 
to those of you who have begun to 
practice the art. This is to illu- 
minate a border or " mount " around 
a favorite photograph. The picture 
must first be pasted on a large 
sheet of tinted card-board, pale 
edge with a pencil, cut out, and lightly whip it cream or gray being the best tints to select. You 
round, pulling the thread a little to keep the circle then measure the spaces for your frame, which 
perfect. Measure the circle, and cut a straight should be square if the picture is oval or round, 

See St. Nicholas, Vol. IV., page 379. 







and outline them lightly in lead-pencil. Next you 
sketch and paint your pattern, — flowers, leaves, 
birds, butterflies, or a set pattern, as you prefer, — 
putting the designs thickly together ; and, lastly, 
you fill all the blank spaces in with gold paint, 
leaving the pattern in colors on a gilded ground. 
The outer edge of the frame should be broken into 
little scallops or trefoils in gold, and the card-board 
should be large enough to leave a space of at least 
three inches between the illuminated border and 
the frame, which should be a wide band of dull 
gilding or pale-colored wood, with a tiny line of 
black to relieve it. The ornament should, if pos- 
sible, chord in some way with the picture. Thus a 
photograph of a Madonna might have the annuncia- 
tion-lilies and passion-flowers on the gold ground. 

A Book of Texts. 

Another choice thing which can be done by a 
skillful illuminator is a small book, containing a 
few favorite texts, chosen by some friend. Half-a- 
dozen will be enough. Each text occupies a sepa- 
rate page, and is carefully lettered in red or black, 
with decorated initials, and a border in colors. A 
great deal of taste can be shown in the arrange- 
ment of these borders, which should be appropriate 
to the text they surround. A title-page is added, 
and the book is bound in some quaint way. A 
cover of parchment or white vellum, illuminated 
also, can be made very beautiful. 

A Carte-de-Visite Receiver. 

For this you must procure from the tin-man a 
strip of tin three times as long as it is wide — say 
six inches by eighteen — with each end shaped to a 
point, as indicated in the picture. Measure off 
two bits of card-board of exactly the same size and 
shape ; cover one with silk or muslin for a back, 
and the other with Java canvas, cloth, or velvet, 
embroidered with a monogram in the upper point, 
and a little pattern or motto in the lower. Lay 
the double coverings one on each side of the tin, 
and cross the outside one with narrow ribbons, 
arranged as in the picture. Overhand firmly all 
around ; finish the top with a plaited ribbon and a 
little bow and loop to hang it by, and the bottom 
with a bullion fringe of the color of the ribbon. 

A Pair of Bellows. 

There seems no end to the pretty devices which 
proficients in painting can accomplish. We saw not 
long since a pair of wooden bellows which had 
been decorated with a painting of a tiny owl sitting 
on a bough, and the motto " Blow, blow, thou 
bitter wind." Why should not some of you try 
your hands at something similar ? Wood fires, 
thank heaven, are much more common than the)' 

used to be, and most of you must know a cozy 
chimney corner where a pretty pair of bellows 
would be valued. 

A Door-Panel. 

A great bunch of field-flowers, or fruit-boughs, 
or Virginia-creeper, painted in water-paints on the 
panel of an ordinary door, is another nice thing for 
you young artists 
to attempt. Per- 
haps you will ob- 
ject that a pict- 
ure on a door can 
hardly be called 
a Christmas pres- 
ent ; but we 
don't know. 

which loving 
fingers can make, 
and loving hearts 
enjoy, is a gift wor- 
thy of Christmas 
or anv other time. 

A Sachet ix 

Another dainty 
idea for you who 
can paint is a small 
perfume -case of 
white or pale-col- 
ored silk or satin, 
on which is painted 
a bunch of flowers 
or a little motto. 
The flowers must 
be small ones, such 
as forget-me-nots 
or purple and white 
violets. A great 
deal of white paint 
— body color, as it 
is called — should 
be mixed with the 
color, to make it 
thick enough not 
to soak and stain 
the silk along the 
edges of the pattern. 


Some people paint the whole 
design in solid white, let it dry, and then put on 
the color over the white. Others mix a little ox- 
gall with the paint. 

Decorated Candles. 

The large wax or composition candles, of a firm 
texture, are best for purposes of decoration. Water- 
color paints can be used, or those powders which 

i8 7 7-] 


come for coloring wax flowers. In either case it 
will be necessary to use a little ox-gall to give the 
paint consistency. A band of solid tint — crimson, 
black, blue or gold — is usually put around the 
middle of the candle, with a pattern in flowers or 
small bright points above and below. Spirals of 
blue forget-me-nots all over the candle are pretty, 
or sprays of leaves and berries set in a regular 
pattern. These gay candles are considered orna- 
mental for a writing-table, and look well in the 
brass candlesticks which are so much used just 
now, though we confess to a preference for un- 
ornamented candles of one solid tint. 

A Rustic Jardiniere. 

Boys and girls who live in the country hardl)' 
know how lucky they are, or what mines of mate- 
rials for clever handiwork lie close by them in the 
fruitful, generous woods. What with cones and 
leaves and moss and lichens and bark and fungi 
and twigs and ferns, these great green store-houses 
beat all the fancy shops for variety and beauty, and 
their "stock" is given «away without money or 
price to all who choose to take. Most of you know 
something of the infinite variety of things which 
can be made out of these wood treasures, though 
nobody knows, or can know, all. Now, we want to 
tell you of a new thing, not at all difficult to make, 
and which would be a lovely surprise for some one 
this coming Christmas. 

It is a rustic jardiniere, or flower-pot. The first 
step toward making it is to find a small stump 
about ten inches high, and as odd and twisted in 
shape as possible. It should have a base broader 
than its top, and three or four little branches pro- 
jecting from its sides. Carry this treasure home, 
brush off any dirt which may cling to it, and orna- 
ment it with mosses and lichens, glued on to look 
as natural as possible. Make three small cornu- 
copias of pasteboard ; cover them also with mosses 
and lichens, and fasten them to the stump between 
the forks of the branches, using small brads or 
tacks to keep them firm. Stuff the cornucopias 
with dry moss, and arrange in each a bouquet of 
grasses, autumn leaves, and dried ferns, dipping 
the end of each stem in flour paste, to make it 
secure in its place. Sprays of blackberry-vine or 
michella, and the satin-white pods of the old- 
fashioned "honesty," make an effective addition. 
When done, we have a delightful winter-garden, 
which will keep its beauty through the months of 
snow and sleet, and brighten any room it stands in. 
Nor is its use over when winter ends, for, inserting 
small glass phials in the cornucopias, fresh flowers 
can be kept in them as in a vase, and the grays 

and browns of the lichened wood set off their hues 
far better than any gay vase could. 

Another Jardiniere. 
Another rustic flower-holder can be made by 
selecting three khotty twigs, two and a half feet 
long and about an inch in diameter, and nailing 
them together in the form of a tripod, one half 
serving as a base, the other to hold a small flower- 
pot or a goblet whose foot has been broken off. 
The lower half should be strengthened with cross 
pieces nailed on, and both halves with twists of 
wild grape-vine or green briar, wired at their cross- 
ings to hold them firmly in place. When the frame 
is ready, melt together half a pound of bees'-wax, 
a quarter of a pound of rosin, and enough pow- 
dered burnt-umber to give a dark brown color ; 
and pour the mixture on boiling hot. It will give 
the wood a rich tint. Fill the pot with sand, place 
over the sand a layer of green moss well pulled 
apart, and in that arrange a bouquet of dried 
leaves, ferns and grasses, or, if it is summer-time, 
wild flowers and vines. 

Now, dear fancy-workers, little and big, surely 
Mother Santa Claus has furnished you with ideas 
enough to keep you busy for more Christmases 
than one. Just one thing more, and that is the 
manner in which the presents shall be given. 
Nothing can be droller than to hang up one's stock- 
ings, and nothing prettier or more full of meaning 
than a Christmas-tree. But for some of you who 
may like to make a novelty in these time-honored 
ways, we will just mention that it is good fun to 
make a "Christmas-pie" in an enormous tin dish- 
pan, with a make-believe crust of yellow cartridge 
paper, ornamented with twirls and flourishes of the 
same, held down with pins, and have it served on 
Christmas Eve, full of pretty things and sugar- 
plums, jokes and jolly little rhymes fastened to the 
parcels. The cutting should be done beforehand, 
and hidden by the twirls of paper ; but the carver 
can pretend to use his knife and fork, and spooning 
out the packages will insure a merry time for all at 
table. And one more suggestion. Little articles, 
wrapped in white paper, can be put inside cakes, 
baked and iced, and thus furnish another amusing 
surprise for the " pie " or the Christmas-tree. 

We are indebted to Mrs. L. B. Goodall, Mrs. M. 
E. Stockton, Mrs. Tolles, Miss Annie M. Phoebus, 
Miss M. Meeker, and Miss M. H. D., for designs 
and suggestions in aid of this article ; and to the 
" Ladies' Floral Cabinet " for some valuable hints 
on "Leaf-work." 





There were once some nice little birds who lived together in a great 
big cage. This cage was not at all like the bird-cages we generally see. 
It was called an aviary, 
and it was as large as 
a room. It had small 
trees and bushes grow- 
ing in it, so that the 
birds could fly about 
among the green leaves 
and settle on the 
branches. There were 
little houses where the 
birds might make their 
nests and bring up their 
young ones, and there 
was everything else that 
the people who owned 
this big cage thought 
their little birds would 
want. It had wires all 
around it to keep the 
birds from flying away. 
One of the tamest 
and prettiest of the 
birds who lived in this place was called little Tweet, because, whenever 
she saw any of the family coming near the cage she would fly up close to 
the wires and say, "Tweet! Tweet!" which meant "Good-morning! how 
do you do ? " But they thought it was only her pretty way of asking for 
something to eat; and as she said "Tweet" so much, they gave her that 
for a name. 

One day there was a boy who came to visit the family who owned 
the birds, and very soon he went to see the big cage. He had never 
seen anything like it before. He had never been so close to birds that 
were sitting on trees or hopping about among the branches. If the birds 
at home were as tame as these, he could knock over lots of them, he thought. 

There was one that seemed tamer than any of the rest. It came up 
close to him and said: "Tweet! Tweet!" 






The boy got a little stick and pushed it through the wires at little Tweet, 
and struck her. Poor little Tweet was frightened and hurt. She flew up 
to a branch of the tree and sat there, feeling very badly. When the boy 
found he could not reach her any more with his stick, he went away. 

Tweet sat on the branch a lone time. The other birds saw she was 
sick, and came and asked how she felt. Some of them carried nice seeds 
to her in their bills. But little Tweet could not eat anything. She ached 
all over, and sat very quietly with her head down on her breast. 

She sat on that branch nearly all day. She had a little baby-bird, 
who was in a nest in one of the small houses, but the other birds said 
she need not go and feed it if she did not wish to move about. They 
would take it something to eat. 

But, toward night, she heard her baby cry, and then she thought she 
must go to it. So she slowly flew over to her house ; and her baby, who 
was in a little nest against the wall, was very glad to see her. 

In the morning, two of the birds came to the house to see how little 
Tweet was, and found her lying on the floor, dead. The little baby-bird was 
looking out of its nest, wondering what it all meant. How sorry those two 
birds were when 
they found that 
their good little 
friend Tweet was 
really dead ! 

"Poor Tweet !" 
said one of them, 
"She was the 
gentlest and best 
of us all. And 
that poor little 
dear in the nest 
there, what will 
become of it ? " 

" Become of 
it ! " replied the 
other bird, who 

was sitting by poor Tweet, " Become of it ! Why, it shall never want for 
anything. I shall take it for my own, and I will be a kind mother to it, 
for the sake of poor little Tweet." 

Now, do you not think that there were good, kind birds in that big 
cage ? But what do you think of the boy ? 

Vol. V.— c. 






Hurrah for the new volume ! — Volume V., 
I believe it is to be called. That reminds me of 
the names of Japanese children, hundreds of years 
ago. Instead of being known by the Japanese for 
Tom, Henry, or John, it was No. I, No. 2, No. 3, 
and so on, through a whole family of little folks. 

Once you had an article* on Japanese Games 
by a native of Japan, Ichy Zo Hattori. Well, this 
name, as you will all admit, is a fine-sounding ap- 
pellative enough, but in English it means simply 
No. 1 Hattori. 

So, welcome to the lovely new child, No. 5 St. 
Nicholas ! — and that he may grow to be a brave, 
bright volume, beautiful to look at and useful to 
this and many a generation of little folks, is your 
Jack's earnest wish. 

Of one thing the little fellow may be sure, — Jack 
and the Deacon, and the dear, blessed Little School- 
ma'am, will stand by him to the end. And so will 
you, my chicks, Jack verily believes. He '11 be a 
good friend to you, bringing you any amount of 
fun, and telling you more good things every month 
than you '11 remember in a thousand years. 

Now we 'II take up our next subject. 


Well, well ! The birds must be joking, for 
who ever heard of a bird telling a deliberate lie? 
And yet it may be true. There have been artificial 
men, — manikins, automata, or whatever they are 
called, — so why shouldn't there be artificial horses ? 

Come to think of it, it was not the birds who 
told me about them. It was a letter ; and " arti- 
ficial horses" the letter said, as plainly as could be. 
It told how a fine specimen had just been exhibited 
in the capital of Prussia. The thing must look 
like a horse, too, for it is a hobby between two high 
wheels (the rider sits on the saddle), and it travels 

about as rapidly as a trotting horse. As I under- 
stand it, the rider moves his legs to make the 
machine go, and yet it is n't a bicycle. It goes 
over stony roads, turns corners, and, for aught 
Jack knows, rears and kicks like any ordinary 
charger — that is, when it 's out of order. 

I should like to see one among the boys of the 
red school-house. How they would make it go ! 


Dear Jack-in-the-Pulpit : I wish some of the boys and girls 
who think they never have any chance to read could know a little 
fellow of my acquaintance, named George. He is fourteen years old 
and employed as errand buy in a business house in New York. All 
day Ions he runs, runs, — tip-town, down-town, across town, — until 
you would suppose that his little legs would be worn out. But, 
always on the alert as he is, and ready to do his duty whether tired 
or not, he still keeps constantly before his mind the idea of self- 
improvement, in business and out. Through a friend he has of late 
been able to procure books from the Mercantile Library. Although 
his time during the day, as I have said, is wholly taken up with his 
duties, yet he managed, during the evenings of last fall and winter 
(in five months), to read twelve books, some of them quite long ones 
and some of them in two volumes, all selected with hisfiiend's assist- 
ance From the list, I fancy the little fellow had an eye to enjoy- 
ment as well as profit, for they are not all what are called instructive 
books, although every one of them is a good book for a boy to read, 
and George tells me he enjoyed them all heartily. 

As many of your youngsters, friend Jack, may like to know just 
what books the little fellow has read, 1 will give you the list that he 
wrote out at my request. It does not seem a very long list, perhaps, 
but I think very few hard-working boys in New York have read 
more than George in the same space of time. Here is the list : 

"Robinson Crusoe;" "Benjamin Franklin," 2 vols.; "Life of 
Napoleon," 2 vols.; "Schoolmaster Stories;" "Hans Brinker;" 
"Swiss Family Rol inson ; " "Dickens's Child's History of En- 
gland;" " Kenilworlh; " " The Scottish Chiefs ;"" The Boy Emi- 
grants ; " " Sparks' Life of Washington ; " " Glaisher's Aerial Navi- 

This letter, dear Jack, is sent, not by way of puffing George, but 
as a sort of spur to studious boys and girls who may follow his ex- 
ample, if somebody puts them up to it. — Yours truly, 

Silas Green. 


One of Jack's, good friends, L. 
this new fable : 

W. J., sends you 

" See how I help ! " said a little mouse 
To the reapers that reaped the grain, 
As he nibbled away, by the door of his house, 
With all of his might and main. 

" See how I help ! " he went on with his talk; 
But they laid all the wide field low 
Before he had finished a single stalk 
Of the golden, glittering row. 

As the mouse ran into his hole, he said : 
" Indeed, I cannot deny, 
Although an idea I had in my head, 
Those fellows work better than I." 


New Jersey. r877- 
Dear Jack-in-the-Pulpit : You would not think, from their 
names, that cranberry bogs are pleasant places, but I enjoyed very 
much a visit to one last year in the fall. Seen merely from the road, 
a bog doe; n't show very well, for the leaves are small, and the vines 
are crowded in heavy masses ; but, when you get near, the whiti* 
and red berries look pretty among the dark-green leaves. 

The meadow is checquered with little canals by means of which 
the whole surface is flo ided in wiiter-time, so as to protect the vines 
from the ill effects of frosts and thaws. In the spring, the water is 
drawn offat low tide through the flood-gates. 

When the cranberry-pickers are at work, they make a curious 
sight, for there are people of all ages, odd dres es, and both sexes 
among them, and often a tottering old man may be seen working 
beside a small child. The little ones can be trusted to gather cran- 

* See St. Nicholas for January, ^74. 



6 7 

berries, for the fruit is not easily crushed in handling. Whcie cran- 
berries grow thickly, one can almost fill one's hand at a yrasp. 

The overseer's one-roomed shanty, where he cooks, eats and 
sleeps, is on a knoll, and near it are the barrels in which the berries 
are packed, after they have been sorted according to size and quality. 

Picking cranberries may be pleasant enough in fine weather, but it 
must be miserable work on a cold, drizzly day. 

I hope this short account will be news lo some of your chicks, of 
whom I am one, dear Jack ; and I remain yours truly, H. S. 


Picrmont, N. H. 
Dear Jack-in-the-Pulfit: You ask in the March number of the 
St. Nicholas if any of us have seen crystallized horses "with our own 
eyes" We (Willie and I) have seen them many times: so has 
everybody else who lives here : that is, we have seen something very 
much like it, though we do not call it the same. When the ther- 
mometer is from thirty to thirty-six degrees below zero, horses and 
oxen are all covered with a white frost, so you cannot tell a black 
horse or ox from a white one; nor can you tell young men from old 
ones. Their whiskers, eyebrows and eyelashes, are all perfectly 
white. I've often had my ears frost-bitten in going to the school- 
house, which is only about as far as two blocks in a city. 

ness very much ; but, belonging to the S. P. C. A., I felt obliged to 
know the facts. I found that the turtle had his liberty nearly all the 
time, and a pond of water specially for his use; and that, when the 
haying season should end, he would be turned out to pasture in his 
native b <g for the rest of the year. 

It was a very comical sight, and, knowing my little friend's tender- 
ness of heart, I was sure the turtle would receive nothing but kind- 
ness at his hands. The shell was not pierced, but the queer trotter 
was attached to the cart by means of a harness made of tape, allow- 
ing him free movement of the head, lees, and tail. If any of your 
boys should decide to follow my little friend's example, I trust that 
they will be as gentle as he in the treatment of their turtles. — Yours 
truly, E. F. L. 


Dear Jack: One day. Rob and I (he's my brother) heard sister 
Wei thy screaming awfully. We were playing in the bam, but of 
course we rushed out as hard as we could to save her life, if possible. 
We did not know where she was, but the screams grew louder as we 
neared the house. 

At last we found her near the side-door — and what do you think 
was the matter? 

Why, she was screaming at a turtle ! 


When we see these sights, Jack Frdst cannot paint his delicate pict- 
ures on the windows, for a thick white fr. >st covers them all over, or 
rubs them out. 

We like the St. Nicholas very much, and even our little sister, 
Mary, l.kes to look at the pictures, and she said that she wished she 
could see Jack-in-the-Pulpit. We intend to introduce her next sum- 
mer to some of your relations that live by the big brook We live 
about one hundred miles north west of Concord, in the Connecticut 
valley, about half a mile from the Connecticut River I am thirteen 
years old. — Good-bye, E. A. M. 


lib irs yard last 

Dear Jack : Looking over the fence into my ntign 
summer, 1 saw what seemed to be a Lilipulian load of hay in a liny 
Whatever power drew it, was hidden 

■ -"J —£,■>!. , U1H LIU. Jll^ 1 "' 

;ee a yoke of tiny oxen tu 

c appeared in sight, 
__ the cart I had seen, 
I was assured by my 1 

cart, go: ig_ along the path 
from my sight ; but the motion of the cart made me half expect to 
see a yoke of tiny oxen turn the corner. In a few moments, a small 
turtle appeared in sight, plodding leisurely along and drawing behind 
him the cart I had seen, which was very small and light. 

little neighbor that the turtle 1 ked the busi- 

You don't know how funny it did seem. But we captured the 
dreadful monster (?) and comforted her as well as we could. 

Now, Jack, as you and the Little Schoolma'am can do everything, 
wont you please get St. Nicholas to show us a picture of this 
scene? I do believe sis would laugh as hard as any of us if she 
could see it. - Yours affectionately, Ned G. P. 


The birds tell me that in a certain country 
grows an apple one half of which is sweet and the 
other half sour. I don't think I should like that 
sort of apple. The sweet side might do very well, 
as far as it went; but if you happened to bite on 
the other side, — ugh ! 

I like things that are good all through, so that I 
can be sure how to take them. Don't you? 




— evSR 


v U «LE CHILD, ^ 





Music by WM. K. BASSFORD. 

With Spirit. 


T —fv 


5 — s — 3 — a — ±z*bzzi — *~ 

i. Can a lit - tie child, like me, Thank the Fa - ther fit - ting- ly? 

2. For the fruit up - on the tree, For the birds that sing of Thee, 






-5 — * — » — »- 

Yes, oh yes ! be 
For the earth in 


rit . 


V 4t 


good and true, 
beau - ty drest, 


WL , r 

*^:— It — I — — — +-» — 

t? 1? V "F ? k 

Pa - tient, kind in all you do; 

Fa - ther, moth - er and .the rest, 

* * #■ -0- m 

-0 1 — — -i— | F T 




« tempo. — = 



: ;-/V 

1 ¥ 
p slow. 





Love the Lord and do your part, Learn to say with all your heart : Fa - ther, we 
For Thy pre-cious, lov - ing care, For Thy boun-ty ev - 'ry-vvhere, Fa • ther, etc. 



: HE* 

:1a- 1 



-I — k— V- 




thank Thee ! Fa - ther 

-*— F- 

J i , I S iS I . * pN , 

thank Thee ! Fa- ther in Heav-en, we thank 



-^--H *~ 




Music and words copyrighted, 1877, by W.m. K. Bassford. 




Til E LETTE R - BO X. 

6 9 


Of the many great artists of England, Walter Crane 
is accounted among the ablest and most gifted. As 
a painter on the canvas he stands high with critics ; 
and in this country he is most widely known by his 
designs of colored picture-books for children. This is 
what one critic says of him in this regard: "Walter 
Crane has every charm. His design is rich, original, 
and full of discovery. His drawing is at once manly 
and sweet, and his color is as delightful as a garden of 
roses in June. And with these accomplishments he 
comes full-handed to the children, — and to their parents 
and lovers too ! — and makes us all rich with a pleasure 
none of us ever knew as children, and never could have 
looked to know." 

After this, it is very discouraging to learn, from a 
letter of Mr. Crane's to the Editor of Scribner's 
Monthly, that one may be deceived in buying Mr. 
Crane's books. This is particularly the case with "The 
Baby's Opera." So now we tell the readers of ST. 

NICHOLAS that every true copy of " The Haby's Opera" 
bears on its title-page the name of Messrs. George 
Konlledge & Sons, the publishers, as well as Mr. 
Crane's, and that of the engraver and printer, Mr. 
Edmund Evans. To a purchaser, it would matter little 
that there were two editions of a work as long as the 
unauthorized one was exactly like the original ; but Mr. 
Crane says that " the pirated edition grossly misrepre- 
sents his drawings, both in style and coloring; that the 
arrangement of the pages is different ; and that the full- 
page colored plates are complete travesties, and very 
coarse ones, of the originals." And it does not at all 
improve the false copy that it is to be bought for less 
than the true one costs. It would be bad enough merely 
to deprive Mr. Crane of the profits of selling an exact 
imitation of his book, but it is far worse to put a bad 
sham before the people as the work of a true artist. This 
not only lessens his gains, but also takes away from his 
good name, besides spoiling the taste of the youngsters. 


Girls and Boys : You will all be very sorry, we know, to learn 
that the beginning of Miss Alcott's serial story, " Under the Lilacs," 
has been postponed to the December number ; but in place of it, we 
print this month the capital short story of " Mollie's Boyhood," 
which, we feel sure, will go far toward repaying you for the disap- 
pointment. We must ask you to wait a month longer for the opening 
chapters of the serial, and we mean to give you then a much longer 
installment of it than could have been printed in the present issue. 

Meanwhile, you will find that the splendid article on Christmas 
Gifts, which occupies twenty-two pages of this number, contains 
novelties, hints, plates, and directions enough to keep your minds so 
busy planning, and your hands so busily at work, dining the next 
few weeks, that the December St. Nicholas will come before you 
think of expecting it, and perhaps before you have half finished your 
pretty gifts. 

Dear Little Schoolma'am : Please will you tell me if it is warm 
or cold, and if it is dark or light, in the places between the stars? — 
Yours affectionately, Constance Durivage. 

The Little Schoolma'am respectfully hands over this question to 
other little schoolma'ams. 

Dear St. Nicholas: I make so many of the " Thistle-Puffs " 
spoken of in the September ruinbcr.that I thought I would let you 
know how I fix mine. After I get the thistles I cut off all the green 
excepting a little at the bottom : then I pull out all the purple, and 
leave them out in the sun till they are perfectly round white balls. 
They are very pretty in hats. Please put me down as a Bird- 
defender. — Your constant reader, Alice Gertrude B.enedict. 

Exmouth, England, August 27th. 
Dear St. Nicholas: I have read the story of the "Blue-Coat 
Boy," and like it. I am in England, and almost every day see a 
Blue-Coat boy pass our house. I think he looks like the picture in 
the St. Nicholas. 1 should not like to wear the long coat, because 
I could n't run in it: and I should think he would get a sunstroke, 
without a hat, if he ever goes to the beach. Aunt Fanny is like my 
mamma: she never asks for the right thing at the shops. I like the 
St. Nicholas, and wish another one would come. My aunty gave 
it to me for a Christmas present for a whole year. — Your friend, 

Benedict Crowell. 

We are very glad to see the interest which our readers have taken 
in the subject of "School-luncheons." Many boys and girls have 
sent in letters, thanking us for the article in our September number, 
and filled with sage bits of experience. We should like to acknowl- 
edge these separately, and print some of them, but can do no more 
here than express our thanks 10 our young correspondents, one and 
all, for their kind and hearty words. 

It will interest them all to know, however, that the article has 
attracted attention, and aroused enthusiasm among the older people 
too, — their fathers and mothers, and teachers, and even their favorite 
writers. For here, among the many letters it has brought us, is one 
that is peculiarly welcome. Our readers will have little difficulty in 
guessing who the writer is : 

August 26th. 

Dear Little Schoolma'am: Being much interested, as well as 
amused, by the luncheon article in St. Nicholas for September, I 
should like to add one more to the list of odd luncheons 

A pretty little dish of boiled rice, with a cake of molasses, or pre- 
serve of some sort, in the middle. This, fitted into a basket, and 
covered with a plate, goes safely, and, with the addition of a napkin 
and two spoons, makes a simple meal for hungry children. 

It may find favor in the eyes, or rather mouths, of the young 
readers of St. Nicholas, not only because it is good, but because it 
was the favorite lunch once upon a time of two little girls who are 
now pretty well known as " Meg and Jo March." It may be well 
to add that these young persons never had dyspepsia in their lives,— 
pie and pickles, cake and candy being unknown "goodies" to them. 

With best wishes for the success of this much-needed reform in 
school-children's diet, I am, yours truly, L H. A. 

The Moons of Mars. 

Since Professor Proctor wrote the paper entitled " Mars, the 
Planet of War," published in this number, there has been made, in 
relation to its subject, a discovery that the scientists say will rank 
among the most brilliant achievements of astronomy. 

A great difference once thought to exist between Mars and the 
other planets was that he had no moons . but during the night of the 
16th of August, Professor Hall, of the U. S. Naval Observatory at 
Washington, D. C , actually saw through bis telescope that Mars 
has a moon. On the iSth of August another was seen, smaller than 
the first and nearer to the planet. The larger satellite is believed to 
be not more than ten miles in diameter : it is less than 12,000 miles 
distant from its primary, and its period of revolution about it is 




30 hours 14 minutes. The distance of the smaller moon is 3,300 miles, 
and its period 7 hours 38 minutes. There is no doubt that these 
newly found celestial bodies are the smallest known. 

From measurements made by Professor Hall, it is found, with a 
near approach to certainty, that the mass of Mars is equal to 
1-3, 090,000th part of the mass of the sun. This result was arrived at 
after only ten minutes of calculation, and is believed to be more nearly 
accurate than that obtained by M. Le Verrier, the great French 
astronomer, from observations continued through a century and after 
several years of laborious calculation by a corps of computers. This 

every thirtv-three years, so that if you live to threescore years and 
ten you will be a citizen of a republic of two hundred millions of 
people. Now, all changes are attended by conflict of mind or of arms, 
and you may rest easy that there will be plenty for you to do, and 
plenty of honor and fame if you want them. The true rule of life is 
to prepare in advance, so as to be ready for the opportunity when it 
presents itself. 

" I sjrely hope you will grow in strength and knowledge, and do 
a full man's share in building up the future of this country, which 
your fathers have prepared for you. " Truly your friend, 

" W. T. Sherman, General." 

.vonderful difference in the 'expenditure of time and labor is due to 
the vigilance of Professor Hall and to the admirable qualities of his 
instrument, the great twenty-six inch refracting telescope made by 
Alvan Clark & Sons. 

Oakland, Cal. 
Dear St. Nicholas: I do not wish to make you any trouble, 
but I would like it very much if you could find room in some 
number to give a goud explanation of the great war in Europe. I 
can't understand it in the newspaper, but I am pretty sure you can 
make it plain and simple enough for all of your young readers. — 
Yours truly, Neb. 

The Turco-Russian war is partly a conflict of religions and 
partl\' one of politics. The Turks came into Europe as the religious 
emissaries of the Mohammedan religion. In all the provinces of 
Turkey in Europe which they conquered, the Christians of the Greek, 
Armenian and Catholic churches were the victims of a bitter persecu- 
tion. The Czar of Russia is the head of the Greek church. He 
has made repeated wars in defense of the children of his faith. There 
have been many wars and long sieges which, like the present, were 
said to be only in defense of the faith of the Greek church — a crusade 
and a holy war. 

But if "Neb" will only look at the map of Russia, he will see, if 
he will study climate a little, that the vast empire of Russia has one 
thing lacking. It has no good outlet to the Atlantic Ocean, no power 
upon the seas. The Baltic Sea is closed half the year by ice. The 
great wheat trade of Russia concentrates at Odessa, on the Black 
Sea, and to get her grain to market she must pass through the Turk- 
ish lanes of the Bosphorus and the Dardanelles. Russia js a prisoner 
as to access to the Mediterranean, and so to the Atlantic, and so to 
the world at large. If she is at war, she cannot float her fleets. If 
she is at peace, she cannot sell her grain without going roundabout 
through her neighbors' lots. Turkey stands the tollman at the turn- 
pike-gate, controlling and usurping the highway of all nations. 

Maps are fascinating reading. "Neb" must not think that 
religious faith ever occasioned a war. Russia sincerely desires the 
protection of Greek Christians in Roumania and Bulgaria in Europe, 
and Armenia in Asia, but she wants also to send her ships free to the 
winds through from the Black Sea to the Mediterranean. Look at the 
map once more, " Neb," and see how much of a great country, fer- 
tile, strong, and industrious, is closed and shut against the outer 
world by the absolute Turkish control of the Bosphorus and the 

Indianapolis, 1877 
Dear St. Nicholas : I have taken every number of your splen- 
did magazine, and I will now try to do my share to entertain the 

My papa was a soldier in the great civil war, and I was born in 
camp just after the close of the war, and am now nearly twelve years 

General Sherman, who made the great " march to the sea." wrote 
ine a letter, which is very much too good for one boy alone, so I send 
it to you to publish, so that other children may have the benefit of it 
too.— Your reader, Bernie M. 

" Head-quarters Army of the United States, 
"Washington, D. C, April 21, 1877. 

" Master Bernie M. 

" Indianapolis : 

" I have received the handsome photograph sent me, and recognize 
the features of a fine young lad, who has bef ire him every oppor- 
tunity to grow up a man of fine physique, with a mind cultivated to 
meet whatever vicissitudes and opportunities the future may present. 
Many boys in reading history have a feeling of regret that their lives 
had not fallen in some former period, replete with events of stirring 
interest, such as our Revolutionary War, or that in Mexico, or even 
the Civil War, wherein they feel that they might have played a con- 
spicuous part. 

" Don't you make this mistake. The next hundred years will pre- 
sent more opportunities for distinction than the past, for our country 
now contains only forty millions of people, which will probably double 

No doubt many of our readers have read some of the poems of 
Charles and Mary Lamb, and all who have will be interested in the 
following news concerning one of their books. In 1809 they pub- 
lished a little volume of " Poetry for Children," but only a few copies 
were printed, and these were soon out of print, so that the book 
has long been considered lost to the world. It was recently dis- 
covered, however, that the litt'e book had been reprinted in Boston 
in 1S12, and the only two copies of this edition known to exist in 
this country have lately come into po-.session of Messrs. Scnbner, 
Armstrong & Co., who intend to republish the volume this fall. The 
book contains many delightful little poems for boys and gills, prettily 
rhymed, and full of the quaint humor and conceits which mark the 
other writings of the authors. We should like to print several of 
them, but have only room for these: 

The Young Letter-Writer. 

Dear Sit; Dca>- Madam, or Dear Friend. 

With ease are written at the top; 
When these two happy words are penn'd, 

A youthful writer oft will stop, j 

And bite his pen, and lift his eyes, 

As if he thinks to find in air 
The wish'd-for following words, or tries 

To fix his thoughts by fixed stare. 

But haply all in vain — the next 

Two words may be so long before 
They '11 come, the writer, sore perpiext, 

Gives in despair the matter o'er; 

And when maturer age he sees 

With ready pen so swift inditing, 
With envy he beholds the ease 

Of long-accustom'd letter-writing. 

Courage, young friend, the time may be, 

When you attain maturer age, 
Some young as you are now may see 

You with like ease glide down a page. 

Ev'n then, when you, to years a debtor, 
In varied phrase your meanings wrap, 

The welcom'st words in all your letter 
May be those two kind words at top. 

Crumbs to the Birds. 

A bird appears a thoughtless thing, 
He's ever living on the wing, 
And keeps up such a carolling, 
That little else to do but sing 

A man would guess had he. 

No doubt he has his little cares, 
And very hard he often fares ; 
The which so patiently he bears, 
That, listening to those cheerful airs, , 
Who knows but he may be 

In want of his next meal of seeds? 
1 think for that his sweet song pleads: 
If so, his pretty art succeeds. 
I 'II scatter there among the weeds 
All the small crumbs I see. 

We very seldom take up a book only to break the tenth command- 
ment ; but Bayard Taylor's recent volume, "The Boys of Other 
Countries," published by ihe Putnams, always has that effect upon us, 
for we wish that every one of the stories in it had been written for 
St. Nicholas. The best thing we can say to our boys and girls, of 
a book so well described by its title, is that it contains "Jon of Ice- 
land," which originallv appeared in this magazine, and that each of 
the stories is as good in its way as "Jon " itself. 






The initials name a noted philosopher, and the finals an eminent 

1. A narrow arm of the sen. 2. A beautiful flower. 3. A tree, 
usually growing in moist land. 4. A small marine animal. 5. A 
river in the United States. 6. A cone-bearing tree. 7. A tractof land, 
surrounded by water. 8. A metal. isola. 


1. In dwelling but not in house. 2. A Spanish poem. 3. A girl's 
name. 4. A precious stone. 5 A term in English law. 6. An in- 
sect. 7. In bird but not in beast. o'b. 



Find a word to fill the single blank, and divide it into smaller 
words (without transposing any letters) to fill the other blanks. Thus : 
Such Jbrages have gone on in that forester ages. 

1. You must not think the whole were because he . 

2. One of this boy's minor is his constant climbing . 

3. When I gave him a pledge, the toper said with a look, "You 

." 6. The alder was pictured against the , 

every branch, leaf, and standing out clearly. B. 


Find the sum expressed in each horizontal row, and add together the 

four numbers thus found, to form the complete sum 

expressed by the rebus. 


1. Unceasing. 2. Of little worth. 3 
5. A vowel. 6. Devoured. 7. To muse 

Habitation. 4. Ancient. 
A maker of arms. 
q. Small flat fish. The centrals read downward name the act of un- 
folding. GEORGE CHINN. 


1. Curtail a disgrace, and leave an imposture Behead, and 
leave one of Noah's sons. Curtail, and leave an exclamation denoting 
surprise, joy, or grief. Behead again, and leave a vowel. 

2. Curtail a color, and leave a very small part. Behead, and leave 
a verb signifying " to strike." Behead again, and leave a pronoun. 
Curtail, and leave a simple, personal pronoun. 

3. Curtail a beautiful marine production, and leave a girl's name. 
Behead, and leave an Ancient coin. Curtail, and leave a conjunction. 
Behead, and leave a consonant 

4 Behead a part of the body, and leave a kind of tree. Curtail, 
and leave an article used in toilets. Behead, and leave a preposition. 
Curtail, and leave a pronoun. 

5. Curtail a sweet juice collected by bees, and leave a stone for 
sharpening razors. Behead, and leave a number. Curtail, and leave 
a preposition. Curtail, and leave an invocation. N. T. M, 


Aftfr handing a mug of 9, 2, 3 to the man who was at the 7, 4, 
5 of the r, 6, 8, Frank resumed reading the life of 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 
8 ; 9- ISOLA. 

Out on the hill-side, bleak and bare, 

In winter's chill and summer's glare, 

Down by the ocean's rugged shore, 

Where the restless billows toss and roar, 

Deep in gloomy caves and mines. 

Where mists are foul and the sun ne'er shines, 

Man studies my first and second well, 

To learn what story they have to tell. 

Go to the depths of the fathomless sea, 
Go where the dew-drop shines on the lea, 
Go where are gathered in lands afar 
The treasures of earth for the rich bazaar, 
Go to the crowded ball-room, where 
All that is lovely, and young, and fair, 
Charms the soul with beauty and grace, 
And my third shall meet you face to face. 

When war's red hand was raised to slay, 

And front to front great armies lay, 

Then, oft in the silent midnight camp, 

When naught was heard but the sentry's tramp, 

As he patiently paced his lonely round, 

My whole was sought, and yet when found, 

It sent full many a warrior brave 

To his last long rest, in a soldier's grave. I 


for the hand. 2. A voracious 
3. A pipe and a flower 4. A 

I. A cunning animal and a cove 
bird of prey and a useless plant. 

sweetmeat and a bunch of hair. 5. A noun meaning a quick breaking 
and a winded serpent. 6. A stone fence and the bl issom of a plant. 
7. Fragrant and a vegetable.. 8. An entertainment of dancing and 
a boy's nickname. 9. Vapor frozen in flakes, and to let fall. 10. To 
enter into the conjugal state, and a precious metal. 



Fill the first blank with a certain word, and then, by transposing 
the final letter to the place of the initial, form a word to fill the second 
blank. Example : In the /tails of her ancestors she shall tread with- 
out fear. 

1. There is not on a person of larger . 2. On the banks 

of the the traveler alone. 3. As the thought of her kind- 
ness up in my heart, it causes it to with gratitude. 4. It 

was with no intent that destroyed his first will. 5. I noticed 

on the of the pond quantities of . b. 


Write a line in each case describing the position of the letters 
toward each other, and transpose the letters used in this descrip- 
tion to make a word which will answer the definition given. Thus: 

jV ? A part of the day. A j. 

1. S. R. Parts of a house. 

3. S. T. A piece of furniture. 

4. \ p \ To pillage. 

R. on M. (transposed) Morn. 
A kind of bird. 

\ ]'}' \ N 

Ic. 5 


1. Seizing the rascal I compelled him to rive up the money. 2. 
Aunt Nell is fond of singing Hamburg. 3. Belle Prescott only failed 
once last year. 4. Eveline never learned to control herself 5. Where 
is Towser, Gertie? 6. I met Homer in Oregon. 7. Where did you 
find such a queer fossil. Kenneth? 8. Tom Thumb is a tiny speci- 
men of humanity. 9. Did Erasmus Lincoln lose all his property by 
the fire? 





Arrange Lhe words represented by the numbered pictures in their order. The initials and finals {reading down the former and continuing 
down the latter) form a familiar proverb, the sentiment of which is suggested by the central picture. 



Double Diamond Puzzle.- 



Riddle. — Linest, Inlets, Enlist, Tinsel, Silent, Listen. 
Diagonal Puzzle. — Grand, Prate. 


Combination Puzzle.— P — rive — T 

E— pod-E 

A— lid— A 

C — ape — S 

E — lop — E 
Easy Diamond Puzzle.— I, Asa, Isola, Ale, A. 
Puzzle. —Gondola. 

Square-Word. — Midas, Ivory, Donor, Arose, Syren. 
Charade. —Dilapidated. 
Numerical Enigma. — Handsome 

Double Acrostic —Centennial Exposition.— ClovE, EsseX, 
NaP, TallyhO, EpiglotriS, Neroll, NahanT, Ittal, AmO, LemoN. 

Answers to Puzzles in September Number were received previous to September iS, from — Emma Elliott, Brainerd P. Emery, 
Allie Bertram, Sarah D. Oakley, " Camille and Leonie," "Tip," "Yankee," J. W. Myers, George G. Champlin, Alice M. Mason, Mana 
Peckham, Florence E. Hyde, Minnie Wamer, B. O'Hara, "Green Mountain Boy," John Hinktey, Florence Wilcox, "Bessie and Sue," 
Julia Kirene Ladd, Grace Austin Smith, Arthur C. Smith, George Herbert White, William A. Crocker, Jr , Georgtana Mead, A. G. D., 
James Iredell, Lizzie and Anna, Agnes E. Kennedy, Anna E. Mathewson, C. S. Riche, Edith McKeever, Nessie E Stevens, Carrie 
Lawson, Charles G. Todd, Ella and Kittie Blanke, W. Creighton Spencer, W. Irving Spencer, Edith Heard, M, W. C ,, Mary C. Warren, 
Lena and Annie, Annie Streckewald, Hattie Peck, Jennie Passmnre, George J. Fiske. 




Vol. V. DECEMBER, 1877. No. 2. 

[Copyright, 1877, by Scribner & Co.] 

By Henry W. Longfellow. 

Three Kings came riding from far away, 

Melchior and Gaspar and Baltazar; 
Three Wise Men out of the East were they, 
And they traveled by night and they slept by day, 
For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star. 

The star was so beautiful, large and clear, 

That all the other stars of the sky 
Became a white mist in the atmosphere, 
And the Wise Men knew that the coming was near 
Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy. 

Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows, 

Three caskets of gold with golden keys ; 
Their robes were of crimson silk, with rows 
Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows, 
Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees. 

And so the Three Kings rode into the West, 

Through the dusk of night over hills and dells, 
And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast, 
And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest, 
With the people they met at the way-side wells. 

Of the child that is born," said Baltazar, 

" Good people, I pray you, tell us the news, 
For we in the East have seen his star, 
And have ridden fast, and have ridden far, 
To find and worship the King of the Jews." 

VOL. V.— 6. 

74 THE THREE KINGS. [December, 

And the people answered: "You ask in vain; 

We know of no king but Herod the Great ! " 
They thought the Wise Men were men insane, 
As they spurred their horses across the plain 

Like riders in haste who cannot wait. 

And when they came to Jerusalem, 

Herod the Great, who had heard this thing, 
Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them ; 
And said : " Go down into Bethlehem, 

And bring me tidings of this new king." 

So they rode away ; and the star stood still, 

The only one in the gray of morn ; 
Yes, it stopped, it stood still of its own free will, 
Right over Bethlehem on the hill, 

The city of David where Christ was born. 

And the Three Kings rode through the gate and the guard, 
Through the silent' street, till their horses turned 

And neighed as they entered the great inn-yard ; 

But the windows were closed, and the doors were barred, 
And only a light in the stable burned. 

And cradled there in the scented hay, 

In the air made sweet by the breath of kine, 
The little child in the manger lay, — 
The child that would be king one day 

Of a kingdom not human but divine. 

His mother, Mary of Nazareth, 

Sat watching beside his place of rest, 
Watching the even flow of his breath, 
For the joy of life and the terror of death 

Were mingled together in her breast. 

They laid their offerings at his feet ; 

The gold was their tribute to a king ; 
The frankincense, with its odor sweet, 
Was for the priest, the Paraclete, 

The myrrh for the body's burying. 

And the mother wondered and bowed her head, 

And sat as still as a statue of stone ; 
Her heart was troubled, yet comforted, 
Remembering what the angel had said 

Of an endless reign and of David's throne. 

Then the Kings rode out of the city gate, 

With the clatter of hoofs in proud array ; 
But they went not back to Herod the Great, 
For they knew his malice and feared his hate, 

And returned to their homes by another way. 




By Theodore Winthrop. 

[The following hitherto-imprinted fragment by Theodore Winthrop, author of "John Brent," "The Canoe and the Saddle," "Life 
in the Open Air," and other works, was intended by him for the first chapter of a story called "Steers Flotsam," but it has an interest of 
its own, and is a complete narrative in itself. 

Perhaps there are many of our young readers who do not know the history of that brave young officer who, one of the very first to fall in 
the late war, was killed at Great Bethel, Virginia, June 10, 1861. He was born at New Haven, Connecticut, in September, 1828. He was 
astudious and quiet boy, and not very robust. From early youth he had determined to become an author worthy of fame, but he tore 
himself away from his beloved work at the call of his country just as he was about to win that fame, leaving behind him a number of finished 
and unfinished writings, most of which were afterward published. 

He could handle oars as well as write of them, could skate like his hero in " Love and Skates," and was good at all manly sports. He 
traveled much, visited Europe twice, lived two years at the Isthmus of Panama, and returning from there across the plains (an adventur- 
ous trip at that time), learned in those far western wilds to manage and understand the half-tamed horses and untamed savages about whom 
he wntes so well. This varied experience gave a freedom and power to his pen that the readers of the St. Nicholas are not too young to 
perceive and appreciate.] 

ALMOST sunset. I pulled my boat's head round, 
and made for home. 

I had been floating with the tide, drifting athwart 
the long shadows under the western bank, shoot- 
ing across the whirls and eddies of the rapid strait, 
grappling to one and another of the good-natured 
sloops and schooners that swept along the highway 
to the great city, near at hand. 

For an hour I had sailed over the fleet, smooth 
glimmering water, free and careless as a sea-gull. 
Now I must 'bout ship and tussle with the whole 
force of the tide at the jaws of Hellgate. I did not 

This encounter strangely dispirited me. My joy 
in battling with the tide, in winning upward, foot 
by foot, boat's length after boat's length, gave 
place to a forlorn doubt whether I could hold my 
own — whether I should not presently be swept 

The tide seemed to c run more sternly than I had 
ever known it. It made a plaything of my little 
vessel, slapping it about most uncivilly. The black 
rocks, covered with clammy, unwholesome-looking 
sea-weed, seemed like the mile-stones of a night- 
mare, steadily to move with me. The water, 

know that not for that day only, but for life, my bronzed by the low sun, poured mightily along, 

floating gayly with the stream was done. 

I pulled in under the eastern shore, and began 
to give way with all my boyish force. 

I was a little fellow, only ten years old, but my 
pretty white skiff was little, in proportion, and so 
were my sculls, and we were all used to work to- 

As I faced about,, a carriage came driving furi- 
ously along the turn of the shore. The road fol- 
lowed the water's edge. I 'was pulling close to the 
rocks to profit by every eddy. The carriage whirled 
by so near me that I could recognize one of the 
two persons within. No mistaking that pale, keen 
face. He evidently saw and recognized me also. 
He looked out at the window and signaled the 
coachman to stop. But before the horses could be 
pulled into a trot he gave a sign to go on again. 
The carriage disappeared at a turn of the shore. 

and there hung my boat, glued to its white reflec- 

As I struggled there, the great sloops and 
schooners rustling by with the ebb, and eclips- 
ing an instant the June sunset, gave me a miser- 
able impression of careless unfriendliness. I had 
made friends with them all my life, and this even- 
ing, while 1 was drifting down-stream, they had 
been willing enough to give me a tow, and to send 
bluff, good-humored replies to my boyish hails. 
Now they rushed on, each chasing the golden 
wake of its forerunner, and took no thought of me, 
straining at my oar. apart. I grew dispirited, quite 
to the point of a childish despair. 

Of course it was easy enough to land, leave my 
boat, and trudge home, but that was a confession 
of defeat not to be thought of. Two things only 
my father required of me — manliness and truth. 

7 6 



My pretty little skiff— the "Aladdin," I called it- 
he had given to me as a test of my manhood. I 
should be ashamed of myself to go home and tell 
him that I had abdicated my royal prerogative of 
taking care of myself, and pulling where I would 
in a boat with a keel. I must take the "Aladdin " 
home, or be degraded to my old punt, and con- 
fined to still water. 

The alternative brought back strength to my 
arms. I threw off the ominous influence. I leaned 
to my sculls. The clammy black rocks began 
deliberately to march by me down-stream. I was 
making headway, and the more way I made, the 
more my courage grew. 

Presently, as I battled round a point, I heard a 
rustle and a rush of something coming, and the 
bowsprit of a large sloop glided into view close by 
me. She was painted in stripes of all colors above 
her green bottom. The shimmer of the water 
shook the reflection of her hull, and made the 
edges of the stripes blend together. It was as if a 
rainbow had suddenly flung itself down for me to 
sail over. 

I looked up and read the name on her head- 
boards, "James Silt." 

At the same moment a child's voice over my 
head cried, "Oh, brother Charles! what a little 
boy ! what a pretty boat ! " 

The gliding sloop brought the speaker into view. 
She was a girl both little and pretty. A rosy, blue- 
eyed, golden-haired sprite, hanging over the gun- 
wale, and smiling pleasantly at me. 

" Yes, Betty," the voice of a cheerful, honest- 
looking young fellow at the tiller — evidently brother 
Charles — replied. "He's a little chap, but he's 
got a man into him. Hurrah ! " 

" Give way, ' Aladdin ! ' Stick to it ! You 're 
sure to get there." 

The sloop had slid along by me now, so that I 
could read her name repeated on her stern — 
"James Silt, New Haven." 

"Good-bye, little boy!" cried my cherubic 
vision to me, flitting aft, and leaning over the 
port davit. 

"Good-bye, sissy!" I returned, and raising my 
voice, I hailed, "Good-bye, Cap'n Silt!" 

Brother Charles looked puzzled an instant. Then 
he gave a laugh, and shouted across the broaden- 
ing interval of burnished water, " You got my name 
off the stern. Well, it 's right, and you 're a bright 
one. You '11 make a sailor ! Good luck to you ! " 

He waved his cap, and the strong tide swept his 
craft onward, dragging her rainbow image with 

As far as I could see, the fair-haired child was 
leaning over the stern watching me, and brother 
Charles, at intervals, turned and waved his cap 

This little incident quite made a man of me 
again. I forgot the hard face I had seen, and 
brother Charles's frank, merry face took its place, 
while, leaning over brother Charles's shoulder, was 
that angelic vision of his sister. 

Under the inspiring influence of Miss Betty's 
smiles — a boy is never so young as not to conduct 
such electricity — I pulled along at double speed. I 
no longer measured my progress by the rocks in 
the mud, but by the cottages and villas on the 
bank. Now that I had found friends on board one 
of the vessels arrowing by, it seemed as if all would 
prove freighted with sympathizing people if they 
would only come near enough to hail. But I was 
content with the two pleasant faces stamped on my 
memory, and only minded my business of getting 
home before dark. 

The setting sun drew itself a crimson path across 
the widening strait. The smooth water grew all 
deliciously rosy with twilight. The moon had just 
begun to put in a faint claim to be recognized as a 
luminary, when I pulled up to my father's private 

Everything looked singularly sweet and quiet. 
June never, in all her dreams of perfection, could 
have devised a fairer evening. I was a little dis- 
appointed to miss my father from his usual station 
on the wharf. He loved to be there to welcome 
me returning from my little voyages, and to hail 
me gently : " Now then, Harry, a strong pull, and 
let me see how far you can send her ! Bravo, my 
boy ! We '11 soon make a man of you. You shall 
not be a weakling all your life as your father has 
been, mind and body, for want of good strong 
machinery to work with." 

He was absent that evening. I hurried to bestow 
my boat neatly in the boat-house. I locked the 
door, pocketed the key, and ran up the lawn, 
thinking how pleased my father would be to hear 
of my adventure with the sloop and its crew, and 
how he would make me sketch the sloop for him, 
which I could do very fairly, and how he would 
laugh at my vain attempts to convey to him the 
cheeks and the curls of Miss Betty. 











(From the French of Duatyeff.) 

By Mary Wager Fisher. 

EOPLE in Tunis, 
Africa, — at least, 
some of the older 
people, — often talk 
of the wonderful 
exploits of a lion- 
I killer who was fa- 
mous there forty 
The story is this, and 
is said to be entirely true : 

The lion-killer was called " The 
Sicilian," because his native coun- 
try was Sicily ; and he was known 
as "The Christian" among the 
people in Tunis, who were mostly 
Arabs, and, consequently, Mo- 
hammedans. He was also called 
"Hercules," because of his 
strength, — that being the name 
of a strong demi-god of the 
ancient Greeks. He was not built 
like Hercules, however ; he was 
tall, but beautifully proportioned, 
and there was nothing in his 
form that betrayed his powerful 
muscles. He performed prodigies 
of strength with so much graceful- 
ness and ease as to astonish all 
who saw them. 

He was a member of a traveling 
show company that visited Tunis, 
— very much as menagerie and 
circus troupes go about this country now from town 
to town. His part of the business was, not simply 
to do things that would display his great strength, 
but also to represent scenes by pantomime so that 
they would appear to the audience exactly as if the 
real scenes were being performed before their very 
eyes. In one of these scenes he showed the people 
how he had encountered and killed a lion with a 
wooden club in the country of Damascus. This is 
the manner in which he did it : 

After a flourish of trumpets, the Sicilian came 
upon the stage, which was arranged to represent a 
circle, or arena, and had three palm-trees in the 
middle. He was handsomely dressed in a costume 
of black velvet, trimmed with silver braid, and, as 
he looked around upon the audience with a grave 
but gentle expression, and went through with the 
Arabian salutation, which was to bear his right 

hand to his heart, mouth and forehead successively, 
there was perfect silence, so charmed were the 
people with his beauty and dignity. 

Then an interpreter cried : 

" The Christian will show you how, with his club, 
he killed a lion in the country of Damascus !" 

Immediately following this came another flourish 
of trumpets and a striking of cymbals, as if to 
announce the entrance of the lion. Quickly the 
Sicilian sprang behind one of the three palms, 
whence to watch his enemy. With an attentive 
and resolute eye, leaning his body first to the right, 
and then to the left, of the tree, he kept his gaze on 
the terrible beast, following all its movements with 
the graceful motions of his own body, so naturally 
and suitably as to captivate the attention of the 

' ' The lion surely is there ! " they whispered. 
" We do not see him, but he sees him ! How he 
watches his least motion ! How resolute he is ! 
He will not allow himself to be surprised " 

Suddenly the Sicilian leaps ; with a bound he 
has crossed from one palm-tree to another, and, 
with a second spring, has climbed half-way up the 
tree, still holding his massive club in one hand. 
One understands by his movements that the lion 
has followed him, and, crouched and angry, stops 
at the foot of the tree. The Sicilian, leaning over, 
notes the slightest change of posture ; then, like a 
flash of light, he leaps to the ground behind the 
trunk of the tree ; the terrible club makes a whistling 
sound as it swings through the air, and the lion falls 
to the ground. 

The scene was so well played that the wildest 
applause came from all parts of the audience. 

Then the interpreter came in, and, throwing 
at the feet of the Hercules a magnificent lion's 
skin, cried : 

"Behold the skin of the lion that the Christian 
killed in the country of Damascus." 

The fame of the Sicilian reached the ears of the 
Bey of Tunis. But the royal dignity of the Bey, 
the reigning prince of that country, would not 
allow him to be present at exhibitions given to (he 
common people. Finally, however, having heard 
so much about the handsome and strong Sicilian, 
he became curious to see him, and said : 

" If this Christian has killed one lion with a club, 
he can kill another. Tell him that if he will knock 
down my grand lion with it, I will give him a thou- 

i8 7 7-J 



sand ducats " — quite a large sum in those days, a 
ducat being about equal to the American dollar. 

At this time the Bey had several young lions that 
ran freely about in the court-yard or garden of his 
palace, and in a great pit, entirely surrounded by 
a high terrace, on a level with the ground-floor of 
the palace, a superb Atlas lion was kept in royal 
captivity. It was this lion that the Bey wished the 
Sicilian to combat. The proposition was sent to 
the Sicilian, who accepted it without hesitation, and 
without boasting what he would do. 

The combat was to take place a week from that 
time, and the announcement that the handsome 
Sicilian was to fight a duel with the grand lion was 
spread far and wide, even to the borders of the 
desert, producing a profound sensation. Every- 
body, old and young, great and small, desired to 
be present ; moreover, the people would be freely 
admitted to the garden of the Bey, where they 
could witness the combat from the top of the ter- 
race. The duel was to be early in the morning, 
before the heat of the day. 

During the week that intervened, the Sicilian 
performed every day in the show, instead of two 
days a week, as had been his custom. Never was 
he more calm, graceful and fascinating in his per- 
formances. The evening before the eventful day, 
he repeated in pantomime his victory over the lion 
near Damascus, with so much elegance, precision 
and suppleness as to elicit round after round of 
enthusiastic cheers. Of course everybody who had 
seen Yam play killing a lion was wild with curiosity 
to see him actually fight with a real lion. 

So, on the following morning, in the early dawn, 
the terrace around the lion's pit was crowded with 
people. For three days the grand lion had been 
deprived of food in order that he might be the more 
ferocious and terrible. His eyes shone like two 
balls of fire, and he incessantly lashed his flanks 
with his tail. At one moment he would madly 
roar, and, in the next, rub himself against the wall, 
vainly trying to find a chink between the stones in 
which to insert his claws. 

Precisely at the appointed hour, the princely Bey 
and his court took the places that had been reserved 
for them on one side of the terrace. The Sicilian 
came a few steps behind, dressed in his costume of 
velvet and silver, and holding his club in his hand. 
With his accustomed easy and regular step, and a 
naturally elegant and dignified bearing, he ad- 
vanced in front of the royal party and made a low 
obeisance to the Bey. The prince made some 
remark to him, to which he responded with a fresh 
salute ; then he withdrew, and descended the steps 
which led to the lion's pit. 

The crowd was silent. At the end of some 
seconds, the barred gate of the pit was opened, 

and gave entrance, not to the brave and powerful 
Hercules, but to a poor dog that was thrown toward 
the ferocious beast with the intention of still more 
exciting its ravenous appetite. This unexpected 
act of cruelty drew hisses from the spectators, but 
they were soon absorbed in watching the behavior 
of the dog. When the lion saw the prey that had 
been thrown to him, he stood motionless for a 
moment, ceased to beat his flanks with his tail, 
growled deeply, and crouched on the ground, with 
his paws extended, his neck stretched out, and his 
eyes fixed upon the victim. 

The dog, on being thrown into the pit, ran at 
once toward a corner of the wall, as far as possible 
from the lion, and, trembling, yet not overcome 
by fear, fixed his eyes on the huge beast, watching 
anxiously, but intently, his every motion. 

With apparent unconcern, the lion creepingly 
advanced toward the dog, and then, with a sudden 
movement, he was upon his feet, and in a second 
launched himself into the air ! But the dog that 
same instant bounded in an opposite direction, so 
that the lion fell in the corner, while the dog 
alighted where the lion had been. 

For a moment the lion seemed very much sur- 
prised at the loss of his prey ; with the dog, the 
instinct of self-preservation developed a coolness 
that even overcame his terror. The body of the 
poor animal was all in a shiver, but his head was 
firm, his eyes were watchful. Without losing sight 
of his enemy, he slowly retreated into the corner 
behind him. 

Then the lion, scanning his victim from the cor- 
ners of his eyes, walked sidewise a few steps, and, 
turning suddenly, tried again to pounce with one 
bound upon the dog ; but the latter seemed to 
anticipate this movement also, and, in the same 
second, jumped in the opposite direction, as before, 
crossing the lion in the air. 

At this the lion became furious, and lost the 
calmness that might have insured him victory, 
while the courage of the unfortunate dog won for 
him the sympathy of all the spectators. 

As the lion, excited and terrible, was preparing 
a new plan of attack, a rope ending in a loop 
was lowered to the dog. The brave little animal, 
whose imploring looks had been pitiful to look 
upon, saw the help sent to him, and, fastening his 
teeth and claws into the rope, was immediately 
drawn up. The lion, perceiving this, made a pro- 
digious leap, but the dog was happily beyond his 
reach. The poor creature, drawn in safety to the 
terrace, at once took flight, and was soon lost to 

At the moment when the lion threw himself on 
the ground of the pit, roaring with rage at the 
escape of his prey, the Sicilian entered, calm and 




firm, superb in his brilliant costume, and with his 
club in his hand. 

At. his appearance in the pit, a silence like death 
came over the crowd of spectators. The Hercules 
walked rapidly toward a corner, and, leaning upon 
his club, awaited the onslaught of the lion, who, 
blinded by fury, had not yet perceived his entrance. 

inclined forward, marked every alteration of posi- 
tion. Between the two adversaries, it was easy to 
see that fear was on the side of the beast ; but, in 
comparing the feeble means of the man — a rude 
club — with the powerful structure of the lion, whose 
boundings made the very ground beneath him 
tremble, it was hard for the spectators to believe 



The waiting was of short duration, for the lion, in 
turning, espied him, and the fire that flashed from 
the eyes of the terrible beast told of savage joy in 
finding another victim. 

Here, however, the animal showed for a moment 
a feeling of anxiety ; slowly, as if conscious that he 
was in the presence of a powerful adversary, he 
retreated some steps, keeping his fiery eyes all the 
time on the man. The Sicilian also kept his keen 
gaze on the lion, and, with his body slightly 

that courage, and not strength, would win the 

The lion was too excited and famished to remain 
long undecided. After more backward steps, which 
he made as if gaining time for reflection, he sud- 
denly advanced in a sidelong direction in order to 
charge upon his adversary. 

The Sicilian did not move, but followed with 
his fixed gaze the motions of the lion. Greatly 
irritated, the beast gave a mighty spring, uttering 

i8 77 .J 



a terrible roar ; the man, at the same moment, 
leaped aside, and the lion had barely touched the 
ground, when the club came down upon his head 
with a dull, shocking thud. The king of the desert 
rolled heavily under the stroke, and fell headlong, 
stunned and senseless, but not dead. 

The spectators, overcome with admiration, and 
awed at the exhibition of so much calmness, address 
and strength, were hushed into profound silence. 
The next moment, the Bey arose, and, with a gest- 
ure of his hand, asked mercy for his favorite lion. 

" A thousand ducats the more if you will not kill 

him!" he cried to the Sicilian. "Agreed!" was 
the instant reply. 

The lion lay panting on the ground. The Her- 
cules bowed at the word of the Bey, and slowly 
withdrew, still keeping his eyes on the conquered 
brute. The two thousand ducats were counted out 
and paid. The lion shortly recovered. 

With a universal gasp of relief, followed by deaf- 
ening shouts and cheers, the spectators withdrew 
from the terrace, having witnessed a scene they 
could never forget, and which, as I said at the 
beginning, is still talked of in Tunis. 


By the Author of '-Alice in Wonderland. 

It was a very hot afternoon, — too hot to go for a 
walk or do anything, — or else it would n't have 
happened, I believe. 

In the first place, I want to know why fairies 
should always be teaching us to do our duty, and 
lecturing us when we go wrong, and we should 
never teach them anything ? You can't mean to 
say that fairies are never greedy, or selfish, or 
cross, or deceitful, because that would be nonsense, 
you know. Well, then, don't you agree with me 
that they might be all the better for a little scolding 
and punishing now and then ? 

I really don't see why it should n't be tried, and 
I 'm almost sure (only please don't repeat this loud 
in the woods) that if you could only catch a fairy, 
and put it in the corner, and give it nothing but 
bread and water for a day or two, you 'd find it 
quite an improved character; it would take down 
its conceit a little, at all events. 

The next question is, what is the best time for 
seeing fairies ? I believe I can tell you all about 

The first rule is, that it must be a very hot day — 
that we may consider as settled ; and you must be 
just a little sleepy — but not too sleepy to keep your 
eyes open, mind. Well, and you ought to feel a 
little — what one may call " fairy ish " — the Scotch call 
it " eerie," and perhaps that 's a prettier word ; if 
you don't know what it means, I 'm afraid I can 
hardly explain it ; you must wait till you meet a 
fairy, and then you '11 know. 

And the last rule is, that the crickets should n't 
be chirping. I can 't stop to explain that rule just 
now — you must take it on trust for the present. 

So, if all these things happen together, you 've 
a good chance of seeing a fairy — or at least a much 
better chance than if they did n't. 

The one I 'm going to tell you about was a real, 
naughty little fairy. Properly speaking, there were 
two of them, and one was naughty and one was 
good, but perhaps you would have found that out 
for yourself. 

Now we really are going to begin the story. 

It was Tuesday afternoon, about half-past three, — 
it 's always best to be particular as to dates, — and I 
had wandered down into the wood by the lake, 
partly because I had nothing to do, and that 
seemed to be a good place to do it in, and partly 
(as I said at first) because it was too hot to be 
comfortable anywhere, except under trees. 

The first thing I noticed, as I went lazily along 
through an open place in the wood, was a large 
beetle lying struggling on its back, and I went 
down directly on one knee to help the poor thing 
on its feet again. In some things, you know, you 
can't be quite sure what an insect would like ; for 
instance, I never could quite settle, supposing I 
were a moth, whether I would rather be kept out 
of the candle, or be allowed to fly straight in and 
get burnt ; or, again, supposing I were a spider, 
I 'm not sure if I should be quite pleased to have 
my web torn down, and the fly let loose ; but I feel 
quite certain that, if I were a beetle and had rolled 
over on my back, I should always be glad to be 
helped up again. 

So, as I was saying, I had gone down on one 
knee, and was just reaching out a little stick to 
turn the beetle over, when I saw a sight that made 




me draw back hastily and hold my breath, for fear 
of making any noise and frightening the little 
creature away. 

Not that she looked as if she would be easily 
frightened ; she seemed so good and gentle that 
I 'm sure she would never expect that any one 
could wish to hurt her. She was only a few inches 
high, and was dressed in green, so that you really 
would hardly have noticed her among the long 
grass ; and she was so delicate and graceful that 
she quite seemed to belong to the place, almost as 
if she were one of the flowers. I may tell you, 
besides, that she had no wings (I don't believe in 
fairies with wings), and that she had quantities of 
long brown hair and large, earnest brown eyes, and 
then I shall have done all I can to give you an idea 
of what she was like. 

Sylvie (I found out her name afterward) had 
knelt down, just as I was doing, to help the beetle ; 
but it needed more than a little stick for her to get 
it on its legs again ; it was as much as she could 
do, with both arms, to roll the heavy thing over; 
and all the while she was talking" to it, half-scolding 
and half-comforting, as a nurse might do with a 
child that had fallen down. 

" There, there ! You needn't cry so much about 
it ; you 're not killed yet — though if you were, you 
could n't cry, you know, and so it 's a general rule 
against crying, my dear ! And how did you come 
to tumble over? But I can see well enough how it 
was, — I needn't ask you that, — walking over sand- 
pits with your chin in the air, as usual. Of course 
if you go among sand-pits like that, you must expect 
to tumble ; you should look." 

The beetle murmured something that sounded 
like " I did look," and Sylvie went on again : 

" But I know you did n't ! You never do! You 
always walk with your chin up — you 're so dread- 
fully conceited. Well, let 's see how many legs are 
broken this time. Why, none of them, I declare ! 
though that 's certainly more than you deserve. 
And what 's the good of having six legs, my dear, 
if you can only kick them all about in the air when 
you tumble ? Legs are meant to walk with, you 
know. Now, don't be cross about it, and don't 
begin putting out your wings yet ; I 've some more 
to say. Go down to the frog that lives behind that 
buttercup — give him my compliments — Sylvie's 
compliments — can you say 'compliments?'" 

The beetle tried, and, I suppose, succeeded. 

"Yes, that's right. And tell him he's to give 
you some of that salve I left with him yesterday. 
And you 'd better get him to rub it in for you ; 
he 's got rather cold hands, but you must n't mind 

I think the beetle must have shuddered at this 
idea, for Sylvie went on in a graver tone : 

"Now, you needn't pretend to be so particular 
as all that, as if you were too grand to be rubbed 
by a frog. The fact is, you ought to be very much 
obliged to him. Suppose you could get nobody 
but a toad to do it, how would you like that ? " 

There was a little pause, and then Sylvie added : 

" Now you may go. Be a good beetle, and don't 
keep your chin in the air." 

And then began one of those performances of 
humming, and whizzing, and restless banging 
about, such as a beetle indulges in when it has 
decided on flying, but has n't quite made up its 
mind which way to go. At last, in one of its awk- 
ward zigzags, it managed to fly right into my face, 
and by the time I had recovered from the shock, 
the little fairy was gone. 

I looked about in all directions for the little 
creature, but there was no trace of her — and my 
" eerie " feeling was quite gone off, and the crickets 
were chirping again merrily, so I knew she was 
really gone. 

And now I 've got time to tell you the rule about 
the crickets. They always leave off chirping when 
a fairy goes by, because a fairy 's a kind of queen 
over them, I suppose ; at all events, it 's a much 
grander thing than a cricket; so whenever you 're 
walking out, and the crickets suddenly leave off 
chirping, you may be sure that either they see a 
fairy, or else they 're frightened at your coming so 

I walked on sadly enough, you may be sure. 
However, I comforted myself with thinking, "It's 
been a very wonderful afternoon, so far ; I '11 just go 
quietly on and look about me, and I should n't 
wonder if I come across another fairy somewhere." 

Peering about in this way, I happened to notice 
a plant with rounded leaves, and with queer little 
holes cut out in the middle of several of them. 
"Ah ! the leaf-cutter bee," I carelessly remarked; 
you know I am very learned in natural history (for 
instance, I can always tell kittens from chickens at 
one glance) j and I was passing on, when a sudden 
thought made me stoop down and examine the 
leaves more carefully. 

Then a little thrill of delight ran through me, 
for I noticed that the holes were all arranged so as 
to form letters ; there were three leaves side by 
side, with " B," " R " and " U " marked on them, 
and after some search I found two more, which 
contained an "N" and an "O." 

By this time the "eerie" feeling had all come 
back again, and I suddenly observed that no crick- 
ets were chirping ; so I felt quite sure that 
" Bruno " was a fairy, and that he was somewhere 
very near. 

And so indeed he was— so near that I had very 
nearly walked over him without seeing him ; which 




would have been dreadful, always supposing that 
fairies can be walked over ; my own belief is that 
they are something of the nature of will-o'-the-wisps, 
and there 's no walking over them. 

Think of any pretty little boy you know, rather 
fat, with rosy cheeks, large dark eyes, and tangled 
brown hair, and then fancy him made small enough 
to go' comfortably into a coffee-cup, and you'll 
have a very fair idea of what the little creature was 

" What 's your name, little fellow ?" I began, in 
as soft a voice as I could manage. And, by the 
way, that 's another of the curious things in life 
that I never could quite understand — why we always 
begin by asking little children their names ; is it 
because we fancy there is n't quite enough of them, 
and a name will help to make them a little bigger? 
You never thought of asking a real large man his 
name, now, did you ? But, however that may be, 
I felt it quite necessary to know his name ; so, as 
he did n't answer my question, I asked it again a 
little louder. " What 's your name, my little man ?" 

" What's yours?" he said, without looking up. 

" My name 's Lewis Carroll," I said, quite gently, 
for he was much too small to be angry with for 
answering so uncivilly. 

" Duke of Anything?" he asked, just looking at 
me for a moment, and then going on with his 

" Not Duke at all," I said, a little ashamed of 
having to confess it. 

"You're big enough to be two Dukes," said 
the little creature. " I suppose you 're Sir Some- 
thing, then ?" 

" No," I said, feeling more and more ashamed. 
" I have n't got any title." 

The fairy seemed to think that in that case I 
really was n't worth the trouble of talking to, for 
he quietly went on digging, and tearing the flowers 
to pieces as fast as he got them out of the ground. 
After a few minutes I tried again : 

" Please tell me what your name is." 

" B'uno," the little fellow answered, very readily. 
" Why did n't you say ' please ' before ? " 

"That's something like what we used to be 
taught in the nursery," I thought to myself, look- 
ing back through the long years (about a hundred 
and fifty of them) to the time when I used to be a 
little child myself. And here an idea came into 
my head, and I asked him, "Aren't you one of 
the fairies that teach children to be good ?" 

" Well, we have to do that sometimes," said 
Bruno, " and a d'eadful bother it is." 

As he said this, he savagely tore a heart's-ease in 
two, and trampled on the pieces. 

" What are you doing there, Bruno ?" I said. 

" Spoiling Sylvie's garden," was all the answer 

Bruno would give at first. But, as he went on 
tearing up the flowers, he muttered to himself, 
"The nasty c'oss thing — would n't let me go and 
play this morning, though 1 wanted to ever so 
much — said I must finish my lessons first — lessons, 
indeed ! I '11 vex her finely, though ! " 

"Oh, Bruno, you shouldn't do that!" I cried. 
"Don't you know that's revenge? And revenge 
is a wicked, cruel, dangerous thing!" 

"River-edge?" said Bruno. "What a funny 
word ! 1 suppose you call it cooel and dangerous 
because, if you went too far and tumbled in, you 'd 
get d'owned." 

" No, not river-edge," I explained ; " rev-enge" 
(saying the word very slowly and distinctly). But 
I could n't help thinking that Bruno's explanation 
did very well for either word. 

" Oh ! " said Bruno, opening his eyes very wide, 
but without attempting to repeat the word. 

" Come ! try and pronounce it, Bruno !" I said, 
cheerfully. "Rev-enge, rev-enge." 

But Bruno only tossed his little head, and said 
he could n't ; that his mouth was n't the right shape 
for words of that kind. And the more I laughed, 
the more sulky the little fellow got about it. 

" Well, never mind, little man ! " I said. " Shall 
I help you with the job you 've got there ?" 

" Yes, please," Bruno said, quite pacified. "Only 
I wish I could think of something to vex her more 
than this. You don't know how hard it is to make 



" Now listen to me, Bruno, and I '11 teach you 
quite a splendid kind of revenge ! " 

" Something that '11 vex her finely?" Bruno asked 
with gleaming eyes. 

" Something that '11 vex her finely. First, we '11 
get up all the weeds in her garden. See, there are 
a good many at this end — quite hiding the flowers." 

"But that wont vex her," said Bruno, looking 
rather puzzled. 

"After that," I said, without noticing the remark, 
" we '11 water the highest bed — up here. You see 
it's getting quite dry and dusty." 

Bruno looked at me inquisitively, but he said 
nothing this time. 

" Then, after that." I went on, " the walks want 
sweeping a bit ; and I think you might cut down 
that tall nettle ; it 's so close to the garden that it 's 
quite in the way " 

"What are you talking about?" Bruno impa- 
tiently interrupted me. "All that wont vex her a 
bit ! " 

"Wont it?" I said, innocently. "Then, after 
that, suppose we put in some of these colored 
pebbles — just to mark the divisions between the 
different kinds of flowers, you know. That '11 have 
a very pretty effect." 

8 4 



Bruno turned round and had another good stare 
at me. At last there came an odd little twinkle 
in his eye, and he said, with quite a new meaning 
in his voice : 

"V'y well — let's put 'em in rows — all the 'ed 
together, and all the blue together." 

"That'll do capitally," I said; "and then — 
what kind of flowers does Sylvie like best in her 
garden ?" 

Bruno had to put his thumb in his mouth and 
consider a little before he could answer. " Violets," 
he said, at last. 

" There 's a beautiful bed of violets down by the 
lake " 

"Oh, let's fetch 'em!" cried Bruno, giving a 
little skip into the air. " Here ! Catch hold of 
my hand, and I '11 help you along. The g'ass is 
rather thick down that way." 

I could n't help laughing at his having so en- 
tirely forgotten what a big creature he was talk- 
ing to. 

"No, not yet, Bruno," I said; "we must con- 
sider what's the right thing to do first. You see 
we 've got quite a business before us." 

" Yes, let 's consider," said Bruno, putting his 
thumb into his mouth again, and sitting down 
upon a stuffed mouse. 

"What do you keep that mouse for?" I said. 
" You should bury it, or throw it into the lake." 

" Why, it 's to measure with ! " cried Bruno. 
" How ever would you do a garden without one? 
We make each bed th'ee mouses and a half long, 
and two mouses wide." 

1 stopped him, as he was dragging it off by the 
tail to show me how it was used, for I was half 
afraid the " eerie" feeling might go off before we 
had finished the garden, and in that case I should 
see no more of him or Sylvie. 

" I think the best way will be for you to weed 
the beds, while / sort out these pebbles, ready to 
mark the walks with." 

" That 's it ! " cried Bruno. " And I '11 tell you 
about the caterpillars while we work." 

" Ah, let 's hear about the caterpillars," I said, 
as I drew the pebbles together into a heap, and 
began dividing them into colors. 

And Bruno went on in a low, rapid tone, more 
as if he were talking to himself. "Yesterday I 
saw two little caterpillars, when I was sitting by 
the brook, just where you go into the wood. They 
were quite g'een, and they had yellow eyes, and 
they did n't see me. And one of them had got a 
moth's wing to carry — a g'eat b'own moth's wing, 
you know, all d'y, with feathers. So he could n't 
want it to cat, I should think — perhaps he meant 
to make a cloak for the winter ?" 

" Perhaps," I said, for Bruno had twisted up the 

last word into a sort of question, and was looking 
at me for an answer. 

One word was quite enough for the little fellow, 
and he went on, merrily : 

" Well, and so he did n't want the other cater- 
pillar to see the moth's wing, you know ; so what 
must he do but t'y to cany it with all his left legs, 
and he t'ied to walk on the other set. Of course, 
he toppled over after that." 

" After what ? " I said, catching at the last word, 
for, to tell the truth, I had n't been attending 

" He toppled over," Bruno repeated, very 
gravely, " and if you ever saw a caterpillar topple 
over, you 'd know it 's a serious thing, and not 
sit g'inning like that — and I shan't tell you any 

" Indeed and indeed, Bruno, I didn't mean to 
grin. See, I 'm quite grave again now." 

But Bruno only folded his arms and said, " Don't 
tell me. I see a little twinkle in one of your eyes 
— just like the moon." 

" Am / like the moon, Bruno ? " I asked. 

" Your face is large and round like the moon," 
Bruno answered, looking at me thoughtfully. " It 
does n't shine quite so bright — but it's cleaner." 

I could n't help smiling at this. "You know 
I wash my face, Bruno. The moon never does 

"Oh, doesn't she though !" cried Bruno; and 
he leaned forward and added in a solemn whisper, 
" The moon's face gets dirtier and dirtier every 
night, till it 's black all ac'oss. And then, when 
it's dirty all over — so — " (he passed his hand 
across his own rosy cheeks as he spoke) "then 
she washes it." 

" And then it 's all clean again, is n't it ? " 

" Not all in a moment," said Bruno. " What a 
deal of teaching you want ! She washes it little by 
little — only she begins at the other edge." 

By this time he was sitting quietly on the mouse, 
with his arms folded, and the weeding was n't 
getting on a bit. So I was obliged to say : 

" Work first and pleasure afterward ; no more 
talking till that bed 's finished." 

After that we had a few minutes of silence, while 
I sorted out the pebbles, and amused myself with 
watching Bruno's plan of gardening. It was quite 
a new plan to me : he always measured each bed 
before he weeded it, as if he was afraid the weeding 
would make it shrink ; and once, when it came out 
longer than he wished, he set to work to thump the 
mouse with his tiny fist, crying out, " There now ! 
It 's all 'ong again ! Why don't you keep your tail 
st'aight when I tell you ! " 

" I '11 tell you what I '11 do," Bruno said in a half- 
whisper, as we worked : " I '11 get you an invitation 

i8 77 .] 



to the king's dinner-party. I know one of the head- 

I could n't help laughing at this idea. " Do the 
waiters invite the guests ? " I asked. 

" Oh, not to sit down ! " Bruno hastily replied. 
" But to help, you know. You 'd like that, 
wouldn't you? To hand about plates, and so on." 

" Well, but that's not so nice as sitting at the 
table, is it ? " 

" Of course it is n't," Bruno said, in a tone as if 
he rather pitied my ignorance ; " but if you 're not 
even Sir Anything, you can't expect to be allowed 
to sit at the table, you know." 

I said, as meekly as I could, that I did n't expect 
it, but it was the only way of going to a dinner- 
party that I really enjoyed. And Bruno tossed his 
head, and said, in a rather offended tone, that I 
might do as I pleased — there were many he knew 
that would give their ears to go. 

" Have you ever been yourself, Bruno ? " 

" They invited me once last year," Bruno said, 
very gravely. " It was to wash up the soup-plates 
— no, the cheese-plates I mean — that was g'and 
enough. But the g'andest thing of all was, / 
fetched the Duke of Dandelion a glass of cider ! " 

" That was grand ! " I said, biting my lip to 
keep myself from laughing. 

" Was n't it ! " said Bruno, very earnestly. 
" You know it is n't every one that 's had such an 
honor as that ! " 

This set me thinking of the various queer things 
we call "an honor" in this world, which, after all, 
have n't a bit more honor in them than what the 
dear little Bruno enjoyed (by the way, I hope 
you 're beginning to like him a little, naughty as 
he was ?) when he took the Duke of Dandelion a 
glass of cider. 

I don't know how long I might have dreamed on 
in this way if Bruno had n't suddenly roused me. 

" Oh, come here quick ! " he cried, in a state 
of the wildest excitement. " Catch hold of his 
other horn ! I can't hold him more than a 
minute ! " 

He was struggling desperately with a great snail, 
clinging to one of its horns, and nearly breaking 
his poor little back in his efforts to drag it over a 
blade of grass. 

I saw we should have no more gardening if I let 
this sort of thing go on, so I quietly took the snail 
away, and put it on a bank where he could n't 
reach it. " We '11 hunt it afterward, Bruno," I 
said, " if you really want to catch it. But what 's 
the use of it when you 've got it ? " ' 

" What 's the use of a fox when you 've got it ? " 
said Bruno. " I know you big things hunt foxes." 

I tried to think of some good reason why "big 
things" should hunt foxes, and he shouldn't hunt 

snails, but none came into my head : so I said at 
last, "Well, I suppose one's as good as the other. 
I '11 go snail-hunting myself, some day." 

" I should think you would n't be so silly," said 
Bruno, " as to go snail-hunting all by yourself. 
Why, you 'd never get the snail along, if you 
had n't somebody to hold on to his other horn ! " 

" Of course I sha' n't go alone," I said, quite 
gravely. "By the way, is that the best kind to 
hunt, or do you recommend the ones without 
shells ? " 

" Oh no ! We never hunt the ones without 
shells," Bruno said, with a little shudder at the 
thought of it. " They 're always so c'oss about 
it ; and then, if you tumble over them, they 're 
ever so sticky ! " 

By this time we had nearly finished the garden. 
I had fetched some violets, and Bruno was just 
helping me to put in the last, when he suddenly 
stopped and said, " I 'm tired." 

"Rest, then," I said; "I can go on without 

Bruno needed no second invitation : he at once 
began arranging the mouse as a kind of sofa. 
" And I '11 sing you a little song," he said as he 
rolled it about. 

"Do," said I: "there's nothing I should like 

" Which song will you choose ? " Bruno said, as 
he dragged the mouse into a place where he could 
get a good view of me. " ' Ting, ting, ting,' is 
the nicest." 

There was no resisting such a strong hint as this: 
however, I pretended to think about it for a mo- 
ment, and then said, "Well, I like 'Ting, ting, 
ting,' best of all." 

" That shows you 're a good judge of music," 
Bruno said, with a pleased look. " How many 
bluebells would you like ? " And he put his thumb 
into his mouth to help me to consider. 

As there was only one bluebell within easy 
reach, I said very gravely that I thought one would 
do this time, and I picked it and gave it to him. 
Bruno ran his hand once or twice up and down the 
flowers, — like a musician trying an instrument, — 
producing a most delicious delicate tinkling as he 
did so. I had never heard flower-music before, — 
I don't think one can unless one 's in the " eerie " 
state, — and I don't know quite how to give you 
an idea of what it was like, except by saying 
that it sounded like a peal of bells a thousand 
miles oft'. 

When he had satisfied himself that the flowers 
were in tune, he seated himself on the mouse (he 
never seemed really comfortable anywhere else), 
and, looking up at me with a merry twinkle in his 
eyes, he began. By the way, the tune was rather 




a curious one, and you might like to try it for your- 
self, so here are the notes : 

1-0-1 — , 

-| ~| i : — 

W-i-^— r 

— p * 


-• — w~ 

— 1 -1 

b W~^-'-^ 


•-' r 

— v— 

• ¥ 


"Rise, oh, rise! The daylight dies: 

The owls are hooting, ting, ting, ting ! 

Wake, oh, wake ! Beside the lake 
The elves are fluting, ting, ting, ting ! 

Welcoming our fairy king 
Wc sing, sing, sing." 

He sang the first four lines briskly and merrily, 
making the bluebells chime in time with the music ; 
but the last two he sang quite slowly and gently, 
and merely waved the flowers backward and forward 
above his head. And when he had finished the 
first verse, he left off to explain. 

" The name of our fairy king is Obberwon" (he 
meant Oberon, I believe), "and he lives over the 
lake — there — and now and then he comes in a little 
boat — and then we go and meet him — and then 
we sing this song, you know." 

"And then you go and dine with him ?" I said, 

"You shouldn't talk,'' Bruno hastily said ; "it 
interrupts the song so." 

I said I would n't do it again. 

" I never talk myself when I 'm singing," he went 
on, very gravely ; "so you should n't either." 

Then he tuned the bluebells once more, and sung : 

"Hear, oh, hear! From far and near 

A music stealing, ting, ting, ting ! 
Fairy bells adown the dells 

Are merrily pealing, ting, ting, ting! 
Welcoming our fairy king 

Wc ring, ring, ring. 

" See, oh, see ! On every tree 

What lamps are shining, ting, ting, ting! 
They are eyes of fiery flies 

To light our dining, ting, ting, ting ! 
Welcoming our fairy king 
They swing, swing, swing. 

" Haste, oh, haste ! to take and taste 

The dainties waiting, ting, ting, ting] 
Honey-dew is stored " 

"Hush, Bruno!" I interrupted, in a warning 
whisper. " She 's coming ! " 

Bruno checked his song only just in time for 
Sylvie not to hear him ; and then, catching sight 
of her as she slowly made her way through the long 

grass, he suddenly rushed out headlong at her like 
a little bull, shouting, " Look the other way ! Look 
the other way ! " 

" Which way ?" Sylvie asked, in rather a fright- 
ened tone, as she looked round in all directions to 
see where the danger could be. 

" That way ! " said Bruno, carefully turning her 
round with her face to the wood. "Now, walk 
backward — walk gently — don't be f'ightened ; you 
sha' n't t'ip ! " 

But Sylvie did "t'ip," notwithstanding; in fact 
he led her, in his hurry, across so many little sticks 
and stones, that it was really a wonder the poor 
child could keep on her feet at all. But he was far 
too much excited to think of what he was doing. 

I silently pointed out to Bruno the best place to 
lead her to, so as to get a view of the whole garden 
at once ; it was a little rising ground, about the 
height of a potato ; and, when they had mounted 
it, I drew back into the shade that Sylvie might n't 
see me. 

I heard Bruno cry out triumphantly, "Now you 
may look ! " and then followed a great clapping of 
hands, but it was all done by Bruno himself. Syl- 
vie was quite silent ; she only stood and gazed with 
her hands clasped tightly together, and I was half 
afraid she did n't like it after all. 

Bruno, too, was watching her anxiously, and 
when she jumped down from the mound, and began 
wandering up and down the little walks, he cau- 
tiously followed her about, evidently anxious that 
she should form her own opinion of it all, without 
any hint from him. And when at last she drew a 
long breath, and gave her verdict, — in a hurried 
whisper, and without the slightest regard to gram- 
mar, — "It's the loveliest thing as I never saw in 
all my life before ! " the little fellow looked as well 
pleased as if it had been given by all the judges and 
juries in England put together. 

"And did you really do it all by yourself, Bruno?" 
said Sylvie. " And all for me ?" 

" I was helped a bit," Bruno began, with a merry 
little laugh at her surprise. " We 've been at it all 

the afternoon; I thought you'd like- " and 

here the poor little fellow's lip began to quiver, and 
all in a moment he burst out crying, and, running 
up to Sylvie, he flung his arms passionately round 
her neck, and hid his face on her shoulder. 

There was a little quiver in Sylvie's voice too, as 
she whispered, "Why, what's the matter, darling?" 
and tried to lift up his head and kiss him. 

But Bruno only clung to her, sobbing, and 
would n't be comforted till he had confessed all. 

"I tried — to spoil your garden — first — but — I'll 

never — never " and then came another burst 

of tears which drowned the reft of the sentence. 
At last he got out the words, " i liked — putting in 

i8 7 7-] 



the flowers — for you, Sylvie — and I never was so 
happy before," and the rosy little face came up at 
last to be kissed, all wet with tears as it was. 

Sylvie was crying too by this time, and she said 
nothing but "Bruno dear!" and ''/ never was so 
happy before ; " though why two children who 
had never been so happy before should both be 
crying was a great mystery to me. 

again, flower by flower, as if it were a long sentence 
they were spelling out, with kisses for commas, 
and a great hug by way of a full-stop when they 
got to the end. 

" Do you know, that was my river-edge, Sylvie?" 
Bruno began, looking solemnly at her. 

Sylvie laughed merrily. 

" What do you mean ?" she said, and she pushed 


I, too, felt very happy, but of course I did n't cry ; 
"big things" never do, you know — we leave all 
that to the fairies. Only I think it must have been 
raining a little just then, for I found a drop or two 
on my cheeks. 

After that they went through the whole garden 

back her heavy brown hair with both hands, and 
looked at him with dancing eyes in which the big 
tear-drops were still glittering. 

Bruno drew in a long breath, and made up his 
mouth for a great effort. 

" I mean rev — enge," he said ; " now you under- 




'tand." And he looked so happy and proud at 
having said the word right at last that I quite 
envied him. I rather think Sylvie did n't " under- 
'tand " at all ; but she gave him a little kiss on 
each cheek, which seemed to do just as well. 

So they wandered off lovingly together, in among 
the buttercups, each with an arm twined round the 
other, whispering and laughing as they went, and 
never so much as once looked back at poor me. 
Yes, once, just before I quite lost sight of them, 
Bruno half turned his head, and nodded me a saucy 

little good-bye over one shoulder. And that was 
all the thanks I got for my trouble. 

I know you 're sorry the story 's come to an 
end— rare n't you ? — so I '11 just tell you one thing 
more. The very last thing I saw of them was 
this : Sylvie was stooping down with her arms 
round Bruno's neck, and saying coaxingly in his 
ear, "Do you know, Bruno, I've quite forgotten 
that hard word ; do say it once more. Come ! 
Only this once, dear ! " 

But Bruno would n't try it again. 


(From the Spanish of the Mexican poet Josi Rosas.) 

By William Cullen Bryant. 

A MOCK-BIRD in a village 

Had somehow gained the skill 

To imitate the voices 
Of animals at will. 

And singing in his prison, 
Once, at the close of day, 

He gave, with great precision, 
The donkey's heavy bray. 

Well pleased, the mock-bird's master 
Sent to the neighbors 'round, 

And bade them come together 
To hear that curious sound. 

They came, and all were talking 
In praise of what they heard, 

And one delighted lady 

Would fain have bought the bird. 

A donkey listened sadly, 

And said : ' ' Confess I must 

That these are shallow people, 
And terribly unjust. 

" I 'm bigger than the mock-bird, 
And better bray than he, 
Yet not a soul has uttered 
A word in praise of me." 

i8 77 -J 


8 9 

By Mary Lloyd. 

No doubt you all know something of Venice, 
that wonderful and fairy-like city which seems to 
rise up out of the sea ; with its bridges and gon- 
dolas; its marble palaces coming down to the water's 
edge ; its gay ladies and stately doges. What a 
magnificent pageant was that which took place 
every Ascension Day, when the doge and all his 
court sailed grandly out in the " Bucentaur," or 
state galley, with gay colors flying, to the tune of 
lively music, and went through the oft-repeated 
ceremony of dropping a ring into the Adriatic, in 

charming it must be, you think, when you want to 
visit a friend, to run down the marble steps of some 
old palace, step into a gondola, and glide swiftly 
and noiselessly away, instead of jolting and rum- 
bling along over the cobble-stones ! And then to 
come back by moonlight, and hear the low plash 
of the oar in the water, and the distant voices of 
the boatmen singing some love-sick song, — oh, it's 
as good as a play ! 

Of course there are no carts in Venice ; and the 
fish-man, the vegetable-man, the butcher, the 


token of marriage between the sea and Venice ! 
This was a custom instituted as far back as 11 77. 
The Venetians having espoused" the cause of the 
pope, Alexander III., against the emperor, Fred- 
eric Barbarossa, gained a great victory over the 
imperial fleet, and the pope, in grateful remem- 
brance of the event, presented the doge with the 
ring symbolizing the subjection of the Adriatic to 

But one of the most wonderful things about 
Venice is that, with the exception of those I intend 
to tell you about, there are no horses there. How 

VOL. V.— 7. 

baker, and the candlestick maker, all glide softly 
up in their boats to the kitchen door with their 
vendibles, and chaffer and haggle with the cook for 
half an hour, after the manner of market-men the 
world over. 

So you see the little black-eyed Venetian boys 
and girls gaze on the brazen horses in St. Mark's 
Square with as much wonder and curiosity as ours 
when we look upon a griffin or a unicorn. 

These horses — there are four of them — have 
quite a history of their own. They once formed 
part of a group made by a celebrated sculptor of 

9 o 


t December, 

antiquity, named Lysippus. He was of such ac- 
knowledged merit that he was one of the three 
included in the famous edict of Alexander, which 
gave to Apellcs the sole right of painting his por- 
trait, to Lysippus that of sculpturing his form in 
any style, and to Pyrgoteles that of engraving it 
upon precious stones. 

Lysippus executed a group of twenty-five eques- 
trian statues of the Macedonian horses that fell at 
the passage of the Granicus, and of this group the 
horses^now at Venice formed a part. They were 
carried from Alexandria to Rome by Augustus, who 
placed them on his triumphal arch. Afterward 
Nero, Domitian and Trajan, successfully trans- 
ferred them to arches of their own. 

When Constantine removed the capital of the 
Roman empire to the ancient Byzantium, he sought 
to beautify it by all means in his power, and for 
this purpose he removed a great number of works 
of art from Rome to Constantinople, and among 
them these bronze horses of Lysippus. 

In the early part of the thirteenth century the 
nobles of Fiance and Germany, who were going 
on the fourth crusade, arrived at Venice and stipu- 
lated with the Venetians for means of transport to 
the Holy Land. But instead of proceeding to 
Jerusalem they were diverted from their original 
intention, and, under the leadership of the blind 
old doge, Dandolo, they captured the city of Con- 
stantinople. The fall of the city was followed by 
an almost total destruction of the works of art by 
which it had been adorned; for the Latins dis- 
graced themselves by a more ruthless vandalism 
than that of the Vandals themselves. 

But out of the wreck the four bronze horses were 
saved and carried in triumph to Venice, where 
they were placed over the central porch of St. 
Mark's Cathedral. There they stood until Napo- 
leon Bonaparte in 1797 removed them with other 
trophies to Paris ; but after his downfall they were 
restored, and, as Byron says in "Childe Harold" : 

" Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass, 
Their gilded collars glittering in the sun ; 
But is not Doria's menace come to pass ? 
Are they not bridled ? " — 

Apropos of the last two lines I have quoted, I must 
tell you an incident of history. 

During the middle ages, when so many of the 
Italian cities existed as independent republics, 

there was a great deal of rivalry between Genoa 
and Venice, the most important of them. Both 
were wealthy commercial cities ; both strove for the 
supremacy of the sea, upon which much of their 
prosperity depended, and each strove to gain the 
advantage over the other. This led to many wars 
between them, when sometimes one would gain 
the upper hand, and sometimes the other. At 
length, in the year 1379, the Genoese defeated the 
Venetians in the battle of Pola, and then took 
Chiozza, which commanded, as one might say, the 
entrance to Venice. The Venetians, alarmed 
beyond measure, sent an embassy to the Genoese 
commander, Pietro Doria, agreeing to any terms 
whatever, imploring only that he would spare the 
city. They also sent the chief of the prisoners they 
had taken in the war in order to appease the fierce 
anger of the general. " Take back your captives, 
ye gentlemen of Venice," was the too confident 
reply of the haughty Doria ; "we will release them 
and their companions. On God's faith, ye shall 
have no peace till we put a curb into the mouths 
of those wild horses of St. Mark's. Place but the 
reins once in our hands, and we shall know how to 
bridle them for the future." 

Armed with the courage and energy which 
despair alone can give, the Venetians rallied for the 
defence of their city. Women and children joined 
in the preparations. All private feuds, jealousies 
and animosities were forgotten in the common 
danger. All were animated by the one feeling of 
implacable hatred of the Genoese. Pisani, an old 
commander, who had been unjustly imprisoned 
through the envy of his fellow-citizens, was released 
and put in command of the fleet. On coming out 
of his cell, he was surrounded by those who had 
injured him, who implored him to forget the 
injustice with which he had been treated. He 
partook of the sacrament with them in token of 
complete forgetfulness and forgiveness, and then 
proceeded against the enemy. The confidence of 
the republic had not been misplaced. His bravery, 
skill and foresight, together with the aid of another 
brave captain, Carl Zeno, saved the city, retook 
Chiozza, and completely humiliated the Genoese, 
who were now willing to sue for peace. So that, 
after all, Doria's angry menace was the means of 
saving the independence of the city, and the proud 
possession of the bronze horses of St. Mark's. 





(See "Letter-Box.") 

(3*6 g.leetin.a fry ?/i?/ /iaqe Q/ Oend 
3% tdet 

~S/tecj//na.) -i^'ay, ?//>/ /ie, 



By Lucretia P. Hale. 

Ever since they had come home from the great 
Centennial at Philadelphia, the Peterkins had felt 
anxious to have "something." The little boys 
wanted to get up a "great Exposition," to show 
to the people of the place who had not been able to 
go to Philadelphia. But Mr. Peterkin thought it 
too great an effort, and it was given up. 

There was, however, a new water-trough needed 

on the town-common, and the ladies of the place 
thought it ought to be something handsome, — 
something more than a common trough, — and they 
ought to work for it. 

Elizabeth Eliza had hea.rd at Philadelphia how 
much women had done, and she felt they ought to 
contribute to such a cause. She had an idea, but 
she would not speak of it at first, not until after she 

9 2 



had written to the lady from Philadelphia. She 
had often thought, in many cases, if they had asked 
her advice first, they might have saved trouble. 

Still, how could they ask advice before they them- 
selves knew what they wanted ? It was very easy 
to ask advice, but you must first know what to ask 
about. And again : Elizabeth Eliza felt you might 
have ideas, but you could not always put them to- 
gether. There was this idea of the water-trough, 
and then this idea of getting some money for it. 
S i she began with writing to the lady from Phila- 
delphia. The little boys believed she spent enough 
for it in postage-stamps before it all came out. 

But it did come out at last that the Peterkins 
were to have some charades at their own house for 
the benefit of the needed water-trough, — tickets 
sold only to especial friends. Ann Maria Bromwich 
was to help act, because she could bring some old 
bonnets and gowns that had been worn by an aged 
aunt years ago, and which they had always kept. 
Elizabeth Eliza said that Solomon John would have 
to be a Turk, and they must borrow all the red 
things and Cashmere scarfs in the place. She knew 
people would be willing to lend things. 

Agamemnon thought you ought to get in some- 
thing about the Hindoos, they were such an odd 
people. Elizabeth Eliza said you must not have it 
too odd, or people would not understand it, and 
she did not want anything to frighten her mother. 
She had one word suggested by the lady from 
Philadelphia in her letters, — the one that had 
" Turk " in it, — but they ought to have two words. 

"Oh yes," Ann Maria said, "you must have 
two words ; if the people paid for their tickets, they 
would want to get their money's worth." 

Solomon John thought you might have " Hin- 
doos " ; the little boys could color their faces brown 
to look like Hindoos. You could have the first 
scene an Irishman catching a hen, and then pay- 
ing the water-taxes for "dues," and then have the 
little boys for Hindoos. 

A great many other words were talked of, but 
nothing seemed to suit. There was a curtain, too, 
to be thought of, because the folding doors stuck 
when you tried to open and shut them. Agamem- 
non said the Pan-Elocutionists had a curtain they 
would probably lend John Osborne, and so it was 
decided to ask John Osborne to help. 

If they had a curtain they ought to have a stage. 
Solomon John said he was sure he had boards and 
nails enough, and it would be easy to make a stage 
if John Osborne would help put it up. 

All this talk was the day before the charades. In 
the midst of it Ann Maria went over for her old 
bonnets and dresses and umbrellas, and they spent 
the evening in trying on the various things, — such 
odd caps and remarkable bonnets ! Solomon John 

said they ought to have plenty of bandboxes ; if 
you only had bandboxes enough, a charade was 
sure to go off well ; he had seen charades in Boston. 
Mrs. Peterkin said there were plenty in their attic, 
and the little boys brought down piles of them, 
and the back parlor was filled with costumes. 

Ann Maria said she could bring over more 
things if she only knew what they were going to 
act. Elizabeth Eliza told her to bring anything 
she had, — it would all come of use. 

The morning came, and the boards were collected 
for the stage. Agamemnon and Solomon John 
gave themselves to the work, and John Osborne 
helped zealously. He said the Pan-Elocutionists 
would lend a scene also. There was a great clatter 
of bandboxes, and piles of shawls in corners, and 
such a piece of work in getting up the curtain ! 
In the midst of it, came in the iittle boys, shout- 
ing, " All the tickets are sold at ten cents each ! " 

" Seventy tickets sold !" exclaimed Agamemnon. 

"Seven dollars for the water-trough!" said 
Elizabeth Eliza. 

" And we do not know yet what we are going to 
act ! " exclaimed Ann Maria. 

But everybody's attention had to be given to the 
scene that was going up in the background, bor- 
rowed from the Pan-Elocutionists. It was magnifi- 
cent, and represented a forest. 

" Where are we going to put seventy people ? " 
exclaimed Mrs. Peterkin, venturing, dismayed, into 
the heaps of shavings and boards and litter. 

The little boys exclaimed that a large part of the 
audience consisted of boys, who would not take up 
much room. But how much clearing and sweep- 
ing and moving of chairs was necessary before all 
could be made ready ! It was late, and some of 
the people had already come to secure good seats 
even before the actors had assembled. 

" What are we going to act ? " asked Ann Maria. 

" I have been so torn with one thing and another," 
said Elizabeth Eliza, " I have n't had time to think! " 

" Have n't you the word yet?" asked John Os- 
borne, for the audience was flocking in, and the 
seats were filling up rapidly. 

" I have got one word in my pocket," said Eliza- 
beth Eliza, " in the letter from the lady from Phila- 
delphia. She sent me the parts of the word. 
Solomon John is to be a Turk, but I don't yet 
understand the whole of the word." 

" You don't know the word and the people are 
all here ! " said John Osborne, impatiently. 

"Elizabeth Eliza ! " exclaimed Ann Maria, " Solo- 
mon John says I 'm to be a Turkish slave, and I '11 
have to wear a veil. Do you know where the veils 
are ? You know I brought them over last night." 

"Elizabeth Eliza! Solomon John wants you to 
send him the large cashmere scarf," exclaimed one 

i8 7 7-l 



of the little boys, coming in. " Elizabeth Eliza ! 
you must tell us what kind of faces to make up !" 
cried another of the boys. 

And the audience were heard meanwhile taking 
their seats on the other side of the thin curtain. 

" You sit in front, Mrs. Bromwich, you are a little 
hard of hearing ; sit where you can hear." 

"And let Julia Fitch come where she can see," 
said another voice. 

" And we have not any words for them to hear or 
see !" exclaimed John Osborne behind the curtain. 

"Oh, I wish we'd never determined to have 
charades ! " exclaimed Elizabeth Eliza. ' ' Can't we 
return the money ! " 

" They are all here ; we must give them some- 
thing ! " said John Osborne, heroically. 

" And Solomon John is almost dressed," reported 
Ann Maria, winding a veil around her head. 

" Why don't we take Solomon John's word 
'Hindoos' for the first?" said Agamemnon. 

John Osborne agreed to go in the first, hunting 
the "hin," or anything, and one of the little boys 
took the part of the hen, with the help of a feather 
duster. The bell rang, and the first scene began. 

It was a great success. John Osborne's Irish was 
perfect. Nobody guessed it, for the hen crowed 
by mistake ; but it received great applause. 

Mr. Peterkin came on in the second scene to 
receive the water-rates, and made a long speech on 
taxation. He was interrupted by Ann Maria as an 
old woman in a huge bonnet. She persisted in 
turning her back to the audience, and speaking so 
low nobody heard her ; and Elizabeth Eliza, who 
appeared in a more remarkable bonnet, was so 
alarmed, she went directly back, saying she had 
forgotten something. But this was supposed to be 
the effect intended, and it was loudly cheered. 

Then came a long delay, for the little boys 
brought out a number of their friends to be browned 
for Hindoos. Ann Maria played on the piano till 
the scene was ready. The curtain rose upon five 
brown boys done up in blankets and turbans. 

"I am thankful that is over," said Elizabeth 
Eliza, " for now we can act my word. Only I don't 
myself know the whole." 

" Never mind, let us act it," said John Osborne, 
" and the audience can guess the whole." 

" The first syllable must be the letter P," said 
Elizabeth Eliza, " and we must have a school." 

Agamemnon was master, and the little boys and 
their friends went on as scholars. All the boys 
talked and shouted at once, acting their idea of a 
school by flinging peanuts about, and scoffing at 
the master. 

"They'll guess that to be 'row,'" said John 
Osborne in despair ; " they '11 never guess ' P ' ! " 

The next scene was gorgeous. Solomon John, 

as a Turk, reclined on John Osborne's army- 
blanket. He had on a turban, and a long beard, 
and all the family shawls. Ann Maria and Eliza- 
beth Eliza were brought in to him, veiled, by the 
little boys in their Hindoo costumes. 

This was considered the great scene of the even- 
ing, though Elizabeth Eliza was sure she did not 
know what to do, — whether to kneel or sit down ; 
she did not know whether Turkish women did sit 
down, and she could not help laughing whenever 
she looked at Solomon John. He, however, kept 
his solemnity. "I suppose I need not say much," he 
had said, "for I shall be the ' Turk who was dream- 
ing of the hour.'" But he did order the little boys 
to bring sherbet, and when they brought it without 
ice, insisted they must have their heads cut off, and 
Ann Maria fainted, and the scene closed. 

" What are we to do now?" asked John Osborne, 
warming up to the occasion. 

" We must have an 'inn' scene," said Elizabeth 
Eliza, consulting her letter ; " two inns if we can." 

"' We will have some travelers disgusted with one 
inn, and going to another," said John Osborne. 

" Now is the time for the bandboxes," said Solo- 
mon John, who, since his Turk scene was over, 
could give his attention to the rest of the charade. 

Elizabeth Eliza and Ann Maria went on as rival 
hostesses, trying to draw Solomon John, Agamem- 
non and John Osborne into their several inns. The 
little boys carried valises, hand-bags, umbrellas and 
bandboxes. Bandbox after bandbox appeared, and 
when Agamemnon sat down upon his, the applause 
was immense. At last the curtain fell. 

" Now for the whole," said John Osborne, as he 
made his way off the stage over a heap of umbrellas. 

"I -can't think why the lady from Philadelphia 
did not send me the whole," said Elizabeth Eliza, 
musing over the letter. 

'" Listen, they are guessing," said John Osborne. 
" 'D-kt'-box.' I don't wonder they 'get it wrong." 

"But we know it can't be that!" exclaimed 
Elizabeth Eliza, in agony. " How can we act the 
whole if we don't know it ourselves ! " 

"Oh, I see it !" said Ann Maria, clapping. "Get 
your whole family in for the last scene." 

Mr. and Mrs. Peterkin were summoned to the 
stage, and formed the background, standing on 
stools ; in front were Agamemnon and Solomon 
John, leaving room for Elizabeth Eliza between ; a 
little in advance, and in front of all, half kneeling, 
were the little boys in their India rubber boots. 

The audience rose to an exclamation of delight, 
" the Peterkins ! " 

It was not until this moment that Elizabeth Eliza 
guessed the whole. 

' ' What a tableau ! " exclaimed Mr. Bromwich ; 
" the Peterkin family guessing their own charade." 




By J. G. H. 

There is a word of music's own 
That lifts the soul to see and do, — 

A happy word, that leaps alone 

From lips by pleasure touched anew, 

Which, if it join thy parted name, 
O Blessed Virgin ! bears a curse, 

Than which the fatal midnight flame, 
Or fateful war, holds nothing worse ! 

What is this word, with baleful charm, 
To change the sweetest name we know 

To one surcharged with subtile harm ? — 
And what the strange, new name of woe : 

And if you guess this riddle well, 
And speak this word in answer true, 

How may it lift — I pray you tell — 
The tuneful soul to see and do ? 


By Louisa M. Alcott. 

Chapter 1. 


THE elm-tree avenue was all overgrown, the 
great gate was never unlocked, and the old house 
had been shut up for several years. Yet voices 
were heard about the place, the lilacs nodded over 
the high wall as if they said, "We could tell fine 
secrets if we chose," and the mullein outside the 
gate made haste to reach the keyhole that it might 
peep in and see what was going on. 

If it had suddenly grown up like a magic bean- 
stalk, and looked in on a certain June day, it 
would have seen a droll but pleasant sight, for 
somebody evidently was going to have a party. 

From the gate to the porch went a wide walk, 
paved with smooth slabs of dark stone, and bor- 
dered with the tall bushes which met overhead, 
making a green roof. All sorts of neglected 
flowers and wild weeds grew between their stems, 
covering the walls of this summer parlor with the 
prettiest tapestry. A board, propped on two 
blocks of wood, stood in the middle of the walk, 

covered with a little plaid shawl much the worse 
for wear, and on it a miniature tea-service was set 
forth with great elegance. To be sure, the tea-pot 
had lost its spout, the cream-jug its handle, the 
sugar-bowl its cover, and the cups and plates were 
all more or less cracked or nicked ; but polite per- 
sons would not take notice of these trifling defi- 
ciencies, and none but polite persons were invited 
to this party. 

On either side of the porch was a seat, and here 
a somewhat remarkable sight would have been 
revealed to any inquisitive eye peering through the 
aforesaid key-hole. Upon the left-hand seat lay 
seven dolls, upon the right-hand seat lay six, and 
so varied were the expressions of their counte- 
nances, owing to fractures, dirt, age and other 
afflictions, that one would very naturally have 
thought this a doll's hospital, and these the 
patients waiting for their tea. This, however, 
would have been a sad mistake ; for, if the wind 
had lifted the coverings laid over them, it would 
have disclosed the fact that all were in full dress, 
and merely reposing before the feast should begin. 

: The answer will be given in "Letter-Box" of January number. 

i8 77 .] 



There was another interesting feature of the 
scene which would have puzzled any but those 
well acquainted with the manners and customs of 
dolls. A fourteenth rag baby, with a china head, 
hung by her neck from the rusty knocker in the 
middle of the door. A sprig of white and one of 
purple lilac nodded over her, a dress of yellow- 
calico, richly trimmed with red flannel scallops, 
shrouded her slender form, a garland of small 
flowers crowned her glossy curls, and a pair of 
blue boots touched toes in the friendliest, if not the 
most graceful, manner. An emotion of grief, as 


well as of surprise, might well have thrilled any 
youthful breast at such a spectacle, for why, oh ! 
why, was this resplendent dolly hung up there to 
be stared at by thirteen of her kindred ? Was she 
a criminal, the sight of whose execution threw 
them flat upon their backs in speechless horror ? 
Or was she an idol, to be adored in that humble 
posture ? Neither, my friends. She was blonde 
Belinda, set, or rather hung, aloft, in the place of 
honor, for this was her seventh birthday, and a 
superb ball was about to celebrate the great 

All were evidently awaiting a summons to the 
festive board, but such was the perfect breeding of 
these dolls that not a single eye out of the whole 
twenty-seven (Dutch Hans had lost one of the 
black beads from his worsted countenance) turned 

for a moment toward the table, or so much as 
winked, as they lay in decorous rows, gazing with 
mute admiration at Belinda. She, unable to 
repress the joy and pride which swelled her saw- 
dust bosom till the seams gaped, gave an occa- 
sional bounce as the wind waved her yellow skirts 
or made the blue boots dance a sort of jig upon 
the door. Hanging was evidently not a painful 
operation, for she smiled contentedly, and looked 
as if the red ribbon around her neck was not 
uncomfortably tight ; therefore, if slow suffocation 
suited her, who else had any right to complain? 
So a pleasing silence reigned, not even broken by 
a snore from Dinah, the top of whose turban alone 
was visible above the coverlet, or a cry from baby 
Jane, though her bare feet stuck out in a way that 
would have produced shrieks from a less well- 
trained infant. 

Presently voices were heard approaching, and 
through the arch which led to a side path came 
two little girls, one carrying a small pitcher, the 
other proudly bearing a basket covered with a 
napkin. They looked like twins, but were not — 
for Bab was a year older than Betty, though only 
an inch taller. Both had on brown calico frocks, 
much the worse for a week's wear, but clean pink 
pinafores, in honor of the occasion, made up for 
that, as well as the gray stockings and thick boots. 
Both had round rosy faces rather sunburnt, pug 
noses somewhat freckled, merry blue eyes, and 
braided tails of hair hanging down their backs like 
those of the dear little Kenwigses. 

"Don't they look sweet?" cried Bab, gazing 
with maternal pride upon the left-hand row of 
dolls, who might appropriately have sung in 
chorus, "We are seven." 

'• Very nice; but my Belinda beats them all. I 
do think she is the splendidest child that ever 
was ! " And Betty set down the basket to run and 
embrace the suspended darling, just then kicking 
up her heels with joyful abandon. 

"' The cake can be cooling while we fix the 
children. It does smell perfectly delicious ! " said 
Bab, lifting the napkin to hang over the basket, 
fondly regarding the little round loaf that lay 

" Leave some smell for me ! " commanded Betty, 
rushing back to get her fair share of the spicy 

The pug noses sniffed it up luxuriously, and the 
bright eyes feasted upon the loveliness of the cake, 
so brown and shiny, with a tipsy-looking B in pie- 
crust staggering down one side, instead of sitting 
properly atop. 

" Ma let me put it on the very last minute, and 
it baked so hard I could n't picket off. We can 
give Belinda that piece, so it 's just as well," 

9 6 



observed Betty, taking the lead, as her child was 
queen of the revel. 

" Let 's set them round, so they can see too," 
proposed Bab, going, with a hop, skip and jump, 
to collect her young family. 

Betty agreed, and for several minutes both were 
absorbed in seating their dolls about the table, for 
some of the dear things were so limp they wouldn't 
sit up, and others so stiff they would n't sit down, 
and all sorts of seats had to be contrived to suit the 
peculiarities of their spines. This arduous task 
accomplished, the fond mammas stepped back to 
enjoy the spectacle, which, I assure you, was an 
impressive one. Belinda sat with great dignity at 
the head, her hands genteelly holding a pink cam- 
bric pocket-handkerchief in her lap. Josephus, 
her cousin, took the foot, elegantly arrayed in a 
new suit of purple and green gingham, with his 
speaking countenance much obscured by a straw 
hat several sizes too large for him ; while on 
either side sat guests of every size, complexion 
and costume, producing a very gay and varied 
effect, as all were dressed with a noble disregard 
of fashion. 

" They will like to see us get tea. Did you for- 
get the buns?" inquired Betty, anxiously. 

"No; got them in my pocket." And Bab pro- 
duced from that chaotic cupboard two rather stale 
and crumbly ones, saved from lunch for the fete. 
These were cut up and arranged in plates, form- 
ing a graceful circle around the cake, still in its 

" Ma could n't spare much milk, so we must 
mix water with it. Strong tea is n't good for 
children, she says." And Bab contentedly sur- 
veyed the gill of skim-milk which was to satisfy 
the thirst of the company. 

"While the tea draws and the cake cools let's 
sit down and rest ; I 'm so tired ! " sighed Betty, 
dropping down on the door-step and stretching 
out the stout little legs which had been on the go 
all day ; for Saturday had its tasks as well as its 
fun, and much business had preceded this unusual 

Bab went and sat beside her, looking idly down 
the walk toward the gate, where a fine cobweb 
shone in the afternoon sun. 

" Ma says she is going over the house in a day 
or two, now it is warm and dry after the storm, 
and we may go with her. You know she would n't 
take us in the fall, 'cause we had whooping-cough 
and it was damp there. Now we shall see all the 
nice things ; wont it be fun ?•" observed Bab, after 
a pause. 

" Yes, indeed ! Ma says there 's lots of books 
in one room, ar^i I can look at 'em while she goes 
round. May be I '11 have time to read some, and 

then I can tell you," answered Betty, who dearly 
loved stories and seldom got any new ones. 

"I'd rather see the old spinning-wheel up gar- 
ret, and the big pictures, and the queer clothes in 
the blue chest. It makes me mad to have them 
all shut up there when we might have such fun 
with them. I 'd just like to bang that old door 
down ! " And Bab twisted round to give it a 
thump with her boots. "You needn't laugh; 
you know you 'd like it as much as me," she 
added, twisting back again, rather ashamed of her 

" I did n't laugh." 

"You did! Don't you suppose I know what 
laughing is ?" 

" I guess I know I didn't." 

" You did laugh ! How darst you tell such 
a fib ? " 

"If you say that again I '11 take Belinda and go 
right home ; then what will you do?" 

'• I '11 eat up the cake." 

"No, you wont! It's mine, ma said so, and 
you are only company, so you 'd better behave or 
I wont have any party at all, so now." 

This awful threat calmed Bab's anger at once, 
and she hastened to introduce a safer subject. 

"Never mind; don't let's fight before the chil- 
dren. Do you know ma says she will let us play in 
the coach-house next time it rains, and keep the 
key if we want to." 

"Oh, goody! that's because we told her how 
we found the little window under the woodbine, 
and did n't try to go in, though we might have just 
as easy as not," cried Betty, appeased at once, for 
after a ten years' acquaintance she had grown used 
to Bab's peppery temper. 

' ■ I suppose the coach will be all dust and rats 
and spiders, but I don't care. You and the dolls 
can be the passengers, and I shall sit up in front 
and drive." 

'■ You always do. I shall like riding better than 

'being horse all the time with that old wooden bit 

in my mouth, and you jerking my arms off," said 

poor Betty, who was tired of being horse all the 


" I guess we'd better go and get the water now," 
suggested Bab, feeling that it was not safe to 
encourage her sister in such complaints. 

" It is not many people who would dare to leave 
their children all alone with such a lovely cake, and 
know they would n't pick at it," said Betty proudly, 
as they trotted away to the spring, each with a 
little tin pail in her hand. 

Alas, for the faith of these too confiding mam- 
mas ! They were gone about five minutes, and 
when they returned a sight met their astonished 
eyes which produced a simultaneous shriek of hor- 

■8 7 7-l 



ror. Flat upon their faces lay the fourteen dolls, 
and the cake, the cherished cake, was gone ! 

For an instant the little girls could only stand 
motionless, gazing at the dreadful scene. Then 
Bab cast her water-pail wildly away, and doubling 
up her fist, cried out fiercely : 

" It was that Sally ! She said she 'd pay me for 

had forgotten to put down her pail. Round the 
house they went, and met with a crash at the back 
door, but no sign of the thief appeared. 

"In the lane !" shouted Bab. 

"Down by the spring!" panted Betty, and off 
they went again, one to scramble up a pile of stones 
and look over the wall into the avenue, the other 


slapping her when she pinched little Mary Ann, 
and now she has. I '11 give it to her ! You run 
that way. I '11 run this. Quick ! quick ! " 

Away they went, Bab racing straight on, and 
bewildered Betty turning obediently round to trot 
in the opposite direction as fast as she could, with 
the water splashing all over her as she ran, for she 

to scamper to the spot they had just left. Still 
nothing appeared but the dandelions' innocent faces 
looking up at Bab, and a brown bird scared from 
his bath in the spring by Betty's hasty approach. 

Back they rushed, but only to meet a new scare, 
which made them both cry " Ow ! " and fly into 
the porch for refuge. 

9 8 



A strange dog was sitting calmly among the 
ruins of the feast, licking his lips after basely eating 
up the last poor bits of bun when he had bolted 
the cake, basket and all. 

"Oh, the horrid thing!" cried Bab, longing to 
give battle but afraid, for the dog was a peculiar as 
well as a dishonest animal. 

" He looks like our China poodle, does n't he ? " 
whispered Betty, making herself as small as pos- 
sible behind her more valiant sister. 

He certainly did ; for, though much dirtier than 
the well-washed China dog, this live one had the 
same tassel at the end of his tail, ruffles of hair 
round his ankles, and a body shaven behind and 
curly before. His eyes, however, were yellow, 
instead of glassy black, like the other's, his red 
nose worked as he cocked it up, as if smelling for 
more cakes in the most impudent manner, and 
never during the three years he had stood on the 
parlor mantel-piece had the China poodle done 
the surprising feats with which this mysterious dog 
now proceeded to astonish the little girls almost 
out of their wits. 

First he sat up, put his fore-paws together, and 
begged prettily ; then he suddenly flung his hind 
legs into the air, and walked about with great ease. 
Hardly had they recovered from this shock when 
the hind legs came down, the fore legs went up. 
and he paraded in a soldierly manner to and fro, 
like a sentinel on guard. But the crowning per- 
formance was when he took his tail in his mouth 
and waltzed clown the walk, over the prostrate dolls, 
to the gate and back again, barely escaping a gen- 
eral upset of the ravaged table. 

Bab and Betty could only hold each other tight 
and squeal with delight, for never had they seen 
anything so funny; but when the gymnastics ended, 
and the dizzy dog came and stood on the step 
before them barking loudly, with that pink nose of 
his sniffing at their feet and his queer eyes fixed 
sharply upon them, their amusement turned to fear 
again, and they dared not stir. 

" Whish, go away ! " commanded Bab. 

" Scat ! " meekly quavered Betty. 

To their great relief the poodle gave several more 
inquiring barks, and then vanished as suddenly as 
he appeared. With one impulse the children ran 
to see what became of him, and after a brisk scam- 
per through the orchard saw the tasseled tail dis- 
appear under the fence at the far end. 

" Where do you s'pose he came from?" asked 
Betty, stopping to rest on a big stone. 

" I 'd like to know where he's gone, too, and 
give him a good beating, old thief," scolded Bab, 
remembering their wrongs. 

" Oh dear, yes ! I hope the cake burnt him 
dreadfully if he did eat it," groaned Betty, sadly 

remembering the dozen good raisins she chopped 
up, and the " lots of 'lasses" Ma put into the dear 
lost loaf. 

" The party 's all spoilt, so we may as well go 
home," and Bab mournfully led the way back. 

Betty puckered up her face to cry, but burst out 
laughing in spite of her woe, " It was so funny to 
see him spin round and walk on his head ! I wish 
he 'd do it all over again ; don't you ? " 

" Yes; but I hate him just the same. I wonder 
what ma will say when — why ! why ! " — and Bab 
stopped short in the arch, with her eyes as round 
and almost as large as the blue saucers on the tea- 

"What is it? oh, what is it?" cried Betty, all 
ready to run away if any new terror appeared. 

'• Look ! there ! it's come back ! " said Bab in an 
awe-stricken whisper, pointing to the table. 

Betty did look and her eyes opened even wider, — 
as well they might, — for there, just where they first 
put it, was the lost cake, unhurt, unchanged, except 
that the big B. had coasted a little further down the 
gingerbread hill. 

Chapter II. 


Neither spoke for a minute, astonishment being 
too great for words ; then, as by one impulse, both 
stole up and touched the cake with a timid little 
finger, quite prepared to see it fly away in some 
mysterious and startling manner. It remained sit- 
ting tranquilly in the basket, however, and the 
children drew a long breath of relief, for, though 
they did not believe in fairies, the late performances 
did seem rather like witchcraft. 

" The dog did n't eat it ! " 

" Sally did n't take it ! " 

" How do you know? " 

" She never would have put it back." 

"Who did?" 

" Can't tell, but I forgive 'em." 

" What shall we do now?" asked Betty, feeling 
as if it would be very difficult to settle down to a 
quiet tea-party after such unusual excitement. 

" Eat that cake up just as fast as ever we can," 
and Bab divided the contested delicacy with one 
chop of the big knife, bound to make sure of her 
own share at all events. 

It did not take long, for they washed it down 
with sips of milk and ate as fast as possible, glanc- 
ing round all the while to see if the queer dog was 
coming again. 

" There ! now I 'd like to see any one take my 
cake away," said Bab, defiantly crunching her half 
of the pie-crust B. 

" Or mine eitrjer," coughed Betty, choking over 
a raisin that would n't go down in a hurry. 




" We might as well clear up, and play there had 
been an earthquake," suggested Bab, feeling that 
some such convulsion of nature was needed to ex- 
plain satisfactorily the demoralized condition of 
her family. 

" That will be splendid. My poor Linda was 
knocked right over on her nose. Darlin' child, 
come to your mother and be fixed," purred Betty, 
lifting the fallen idol from a grove of chickvveed, 
and tenderly brushing the dirt from Belinda's 
heroically smiling face. 

" She '11 have croup to-night as sure as the world. 
We 'd better make up some squills out of this sugar 
and water," said Bab, who dearly loved to dose the 
dollies all round. 

" P'r'aps she will, but you need n't begin to 
sneeze yet awhile. I can sneeze for ray own chil- 
dren, thank you, ma'am," returned Betty, sharply, 
for her usually amiable spirit had been ruffled by 
the late occurrences. 

" I did n't sneeze ! I .'ve got enough to do to 
talk and cry and cough for my own poor dears 
without bothering about yours," cried Bab, even 
. more ruffled than her sister. 

" Then who did ? I heard a real, live sneeze just 
. as plain as anything," and Betty looked up to the 
green roof above her, as if the sound came from 
that direction. 

A yellow-bird sat swinging and chirping on the 
tall lilac-bush, but no other living thing was in 

"Birds don't sneeze, do they?" asked Betty, 
eying little Goldy suspiciously. 

" You goose ! of course they don't." 
" Well, I should just like to know who is laugh- 
ing and sneezing round here. May be it is the 
dog," suggested Betty, looking relieved. 

" I never heard of a dog's laughing, except 

Mother Hubbard's. This is such a queer one, 

i may be he can, though. I wonder where he went 

i to?" and Bab took a patient survey down both 

the side paths, quite longing to see the funny 

' poodle again. 

" 1 know where I'm going to," said Betty, piling 

the dolls into her apron with more haste than care. 

■ " I 'm going right straight home to tell Ma all 

" about it. I don't like such actions, and I 'm afraid 

to stay." 
i "1 aint; but I guess it is going to rain, so I 
- shall have to go anyway," answered Bab, taking 
i advantage of the black clouds rolling up the sky, 
for she scorned to own that she was afraid of any- 
' thing. 

i Clearing the table in a summary manner by 
catching up the four corners of the cloth, Bab put 
i the rattling bundle into her apron, flung her chil- 
dren on the top, and pronounced herself ready to 

depart. Betty lingered an instant to pick up odds 
and ends that might be spoilt by the rain, and 
when she turned from taking the red halter off the 
knocker, two lovely pink roses lay on the stone 

" Oh, Bab, just see ! Here's the very ones we 
wanted. Was n't it nice of the wind to blow 'em 
down ? " she called out, picking them up and run- 
ning after her sister, who had strolled moodily 
along, still looking about her for her sworn foe, 
Sally Folsom. 

The flowers soothed the feelings of the little girls, 
because they had longed for them, and bravely re- 
sisted the temptation to climb up the trellis and 
help themselves, since their mother had forbidden 
such feats, owing to a fall Bab got trying to reach 
a honeysuckle from the vine which ran all over 
the porch. 

Home they went and poured out their tale, to 
Mrs. Moss's great amusement, for she saw in it 
only some playmate's prank, and was not much 
impressed by the mysterious sneeze and laugh. 

"We'll have a grand rummage Monday, and 
find out what is going on over there," was all she 

But Mrs. Moss could not keep her promise, for 
on Monday it still rained, and the little girls pad- 
dled off to school like a pair of young ducks, enjoy- 
ing every puddle they came to, since India rubber 
boots made wading a delicious possibility. They 
took their dinner, and at noon regaled a crowd of 
comrades with an account of the mysterious dog, 
who appeared to be haunting the neighborhood, as 
several of the other children had seen him examin- 
ing their back yards with interest. He had begged 
of them, but to none had he exhibited his accom- 
plishments except Bab and Betty, and they were 
therefore much set up, and called him "our dog" 
with an air. The cake transaction remained a rid- 
dle, for Sally Folsom solemnly declared that she 
was playing tag in Mamie Snow's barn at that 
identical time. No one had been near the old 
house but the two children, and no one could throw 
any light upon that singular affair. 

It produced a great effect, however; for even 
"teacher" was interested, and told such amazing 
tales of a juggler she once saw that doughnuts were 
left forgotten in dinner-baskets, and wedges of pie 
remained suspended in the air for several minutes 
at a time, instead of vanishing with miraculous 
rapidity as usual. At afternoon recess, which the 
girls had first, Bab nearly dislocated every joint of 
her little body trying to imitate the poodle's antics. 
She had practiced on her bed with great success, 
but the wood-shed floor was a different thing, as 
her knees and elbows soon testified. 

" It looked just as easy as anything ; I don't see 




how he did it," she said, coming down with a bump 
after vainly attempting to walk on her hands. 

" My gracious, there he is this very minute!" 
cried Betty, who sat on a little wood-pile near the 

There was a general rush, and sixteen small girls 
gazed out into the rain as eagerly as if to behold 
Cinderella's magic coach, instead of one forlorn dog 
trotting by through the mud. 

"Oh, do call him in and make him dance!" 
cried the girls, all chirping at once, till it sounded 
as if a flock of sparrows had taken possession of 
the shed. 

"7" will call him, he knows me," and Bab 
scrambled up, forgetting how she had chased the 
poodle and called him names two days ago. 

He evidently had not forgotten, for though he 
paused and looked wistfully at them, he would not 
approach, but stood dripping in the rain with his 
frills much bedraggled, while his tasseled tail 
wagged slowly, and his pink nose pointed suggest- 
ively to the pails and baskets, nearly empty now. 

" He 's hungry; give him something to eat, and 
then he '11 see that we don't want to hurt him," 
suggested Sally, starting a contribution with her 
last bit of bread and butter. 

Bab caught up her new pail, and collected all the 
odds and ends, then tried to beguile the poor beast 
in to eat and be comforted. But he only came as 
far as the door, and sitting up, begged with such 
imploring eyes that Bab put down the pail and 
stepped back, saying pitifully : 

"The poor thing is starved; let him eat all he 
wants and we wont touch him." 

The girls drew back with little clucks of interest 
and compassion, but I regret to say their charity 
was not rewarded as they expected, for, the minute 
the coast was clear, the dog marched boldly up, 
seized the handle of the pail in his mouth, and 
was off with it, galloping down the road at a great 
pace. Shrieks arose from the children, especially 
Bab and Betty, basely bereaved of their new 
dinner-pail; but no one could follow the thief, for 
the bell rang, and in they went, so much excited 
that the boys rushed tumultuously forth to dis- 
cover the cause. 

By the time school was over the sun was out, 
and Bab and Betty hastened home to tell their 
wrongs and be comforted by mother, who did it 
most effectually. 

"Nevermind, dears, I '11 get you another pail, 
if he does n't bring it back as he did before. As it 
is too wet for you to play out, you shall go and see 
the old coach-house as I promised. Keep on your 
rubbers and come along." 

This delightful prospect much assuaged their 
woe, and away they went, skipping gayly down the 

graveled path, while Mrs. Moss followed, with 
skirts well tucked up, and a great bunch of keys in 
her hand, for she lived at the Lodge and had charge 
of the premises. 

The small door of the coach-house was fastened 
inside, but the large one had a padlock on it, and 
this being quickly unfastened, one half swung 
open, and the little girls ran in, too eager and 
curious even to cry out when they found themselves 
at last in possession of the long-coveted old car- 
riage. A dusty, musty concern enough, but it had 
a high seat, a door, steps that let down, and many 
other charms which rendered it most desirable in 
the eyes of children. 

Bab made straight for the box and Betty for the 
door, but both came tumbling down faster than 
they went up, when, from the gloom of the in- 
terior came a shrill bark, and a low voice saying 
quickly : " Down, Sancho, down ! " 

"Who is there?" demanded Mrs. Moss, in a 
stern tone, backing toward the door with both 
children clinging to her skirts. 

The well-known curly white head was popped 
out of the broken window, and a mild whine 
seemed to say, "Don't be alarmed, ladies; we 
wont hurt you." 

" Come out this minute, or I shall have to come 
to get you," called Mrs. Moss, growing very brave 
all of a sudden as she caught sight of a pair of 
small, dusty shoes under the coach. 

" Yes 'm, I 'm coming as fast as I can," answered 
a meek voice, as wrfet appeared to be a bundle of 
rags leaped out of the dark, followed by the poodle, 
who immediately sat down at the bare feet of his 
owner with a watchful air, as if ready to assault 
any one who might approach too near. 

"Now, then, who are you, and how did you get 
here ? " asked Mrs. Moss, trying to speak sternly, 
though her motherly eyes were already full of pity 
as they rested on the forlorn little figure before her. 

Chapter III. 


" Please 'm, my name is Ben Brown, and I 'm 

" Where are you going ? " 

" Anywheres to get work." 

" What sort of work can you do ?" 

" All kinds. I 'm used to horses." 

" Bless me ! such a little chap as you?" 

"I'm twelve, ma'am, and can ride anything on 
four legs ; " and the small boy gave a nod that 
seemed to say, "Bring on your Cruisers. I'm 
ready for 'em." 

" Have n't you got any folks ? " asked Mrs. Moss, 
amused but still anxious, for the sunburnt face was 

i8 7 7-] 



very thin, the eyes big with hunger or pain, and 
the ragged figure leaned on the wheel as if too 
weak or weary to stand alone. 

" No, 'm, not of my own ; and the people I was 
left with beat me so, I — run away." The last 
words seemed to bolt out against his will, as if the 
woman's sympathy irresistibly won the child's con- 

" Then I don't blame you. But how did you 
get here ? " 

" I was so tired I could n't go any further, and I 
thought the folks up here at the big house would 
take me in. But the gate was locked, and I was so 
discouraged, I jest lay down outside and give up." 

" Poor little soul, I don't wonder," said Mrs. 
Moss, while the children looked deeply interested 
at mention of their gate. 

The boy drew a long breath, and his eyes began 
to twinkle in spite of his forlorn state as he went 
on, while the dog pricked up his ears at mention 
of his name : 

" While I was restin' I heard some one come 
along inside, and I peeked, and saw them little 
girls playin'. The vittles looked so nice I could n't 
help wantin' 'em ; but I did n't take nothin', — it 
was Sancho, and he took the cake for me." 

Bab and Betty gave a gasp and stared reproach- 
fully at the poodle, who half closed his eyes with a 
meek, unconscious look that was very droll. 

" And you made him put it back ? " cried Bab. 

" No ; I did it myself. Got over the gate when 
you was racin' after Sanch, and then clim' up on 
the porch and hid," said the boy, with a grin. 

" And you laughed ? " asked Bab. 


" And sneezed ? " added Betty. 

" Yes." 

" And threw down the roses ? " cried both. 

" Yes ; and you liked 'cm, did n't you ? " 

" Course we did ! What made you hide ? " said 
I Bab. 

" I was n't fit to be seen," muttered Ben, glanc- 
ing at his tatters as if he 'd like to dive out of sight 
into the dark coach again. 

" How came you here?" demanded Mrs. Moss, 
suddenly remembering her responsibility. 

" I heard them talk about a little winder and a 
shed, and when they 'd gone I found it and come 
in. The glass was broke, and I only pulled the 
nail out. I have n't done a mite of harm sleepin' 
here two nights. I was so tuckered out I could n't 
go on nohow, though I tried a Sunday." 

" And came back again ? " 

" Yes, 'm ; it was so lonesome in the rain, and 
this place seemed kinder like home, and I could 
hear 'em talkin' outside, and Sanch he found vit- 
tles, and I was pretty comfortable." 

" Well, I never ! " ejaculated Mrs. Moss, whisk- 
ing up a corner of her apron to wipe her eyes, for 
the thought of the poor little fellow alone there for 
two days and nights with no bed but musty straw, 
no food but the scraps a dog brought him, was too 
much for her. " Do you know what I 'm going to 
do with you ? " she asked, trying to look calm and 
cool, with a great tear running down her whole- 
some, red cheek, and a smile trying to break out 
at the corners of her lips. 

" No, ma'am ; and I dunno as I care. Only 
don't be hard on Sanch ; he 's been real good to 
me, and we 're fond of one another; aint us, old 


chap ? " answered 
the boy, with his 
arm around the 
dog's neck, and an 
anxious look which 
he had not worn 
for himself. 

" I 'm going to 
take you right 
home, and wash and feed and put you in a good 
bed, and to-morrow — well, we '11 see what '11 hap- 
pen then," said Mrs. Moss, not quite sure about it 

"You're very kind, ma'am. I'll be glad to 
work for you. Aint you got a horse I can see 
to ? " asked the boy, eagerly. 
" Nothing but hens and a cat." 
Bab and Betty burst out laughing when their 
mother said that, and Ben gave a faint giggle, as if 
he would like to join in if he only had the strength 
to do it. But his legs shook under him, and he 
felt a queer dizziness ; so he could only hold on to 
Sancho, and blink at the light like a young owl. 

" Come right along, child. Run on, girls, and 
put the rest of the broth to warming, and fill the 




kettle. I '11 see to the boy," commanded Mrs. 
Moss, waving off the children, and going up to 
feel the pulse of her new charge, for it suddenly 
occurred to her that he might be sick and not safe 
to take home. 

The hand he gave her was very thin, but clean 
and cool, and the black eyes were clear though 
hollow, for the poor lad was half starved. 

" I 'm awful shabby, but I aint dirty. I had a 
washin' in the rain last night, and I 've jest about 
lived on water lately," he explained, wondering 
why she looked at him so hard. 

" Put out your tongue." 

He did so, but took it in again to say quickly: 

"I aint sick — I 'm only hungry; for I haven't 
had a mite but what Sanch brought for three days, 
and I always go halves ; don't I, Sanch ? " 

The poodle gave a shrill bark, and vibrated ex- 
citedly between the door and his master as if he 
understood all that was going on, and recom- 
mended a speedy march toward the promised food 
and shelter. Mrs. Moss took the hint, and bade 
the boy follow her at once and bring his " things" 
with him. 

"' I aint got any. Some big fellers took away 
my bundle, else I would n't look so bad. There 's 
only this. I 'm sorry Sanch took it, and I 'd like 
to give it back if I knew whose it was," said Ben, 
bringing the new dinner pail out from the depths 
of the coach where he had gone to housekeeping. 

" That 's soon done ; it 's mine, and you 're wel- 
come to the bits your queer dog ran off with. 
Come along, I must lock up," and Mrs. Moss 
clanked her keys suggestively. 

Ben limped out, leaning on a broken hoe-handle, 
for he was stiff after two days in such damp lodg- 
ings, as well as worn out with a fortnight's wander- 
ing through sun and rain. Sancho was in great 
spirits, evidently feeling that their woes were over 
and his foraging expeditions at an end, for he frisked 
about his master with yelps of pleasure, or made 
playful darts at the ankles of his benefactress, which 
caused her to cry, " Whish ! " and "Scat!" and 
shake her skirts at him as if he were a cat or hen. 

A hot fire was roaring in the stove under the 
broth-skillet and tea-kettle, and Betty was poking 
in more wood, with a great smirch of black on 
her chubby cheek, while Bab was cutting away at 
the loaf as if bent on slicing her own fingers off. 
Before Ben knew what he was about, he found 
himself in the old rocking-chair devouring bread 
and butter as only a hungry boy can, with Sancho 
close by gnawing a mutton-bone like a ravenous 
wolf in sheep's clothing. 

While the new-comers were thus happily em- 
ployed, Mrs. Moss beckoned the little girls out of 
the room, and gave them both an errand. 

"Bab, you run over to Mrs. Barton's, and ask 
her for any old duds Billy don't want ; and Betty, 
you go to the Cutters, and tell Miss Clarindy I 'd 
like a couple of the shirts we made at last sewing 
circle. Any shoes, or a hat, or socks, would come 
handy, for the poor dear has n't a whole thread 
on him." 

Away went the children full of anxiety to clothe 
their beggar, and so well did they plead his cause 
with the good neighbors, that Ben hardly knew 
himself when he emerged from the back bedroom 
half an hour later, clothed in Billy Barton's faded 
flannel suit, with an unbleached cotton shirt out of 
the Dorcas basket, and a pair of Milly Cutter's old 
shoes on his feet. 

Sancho also had been put in better trim, for, 
after his master had refreshed himself with a warm 
bath, he gave his dog a good scrub, while Mrs. 
Moss set a stitch here and there in the new old 
clothes, and Sancho re-appeared, looking more like 
the china poodle than ever, being as white as snow, 
his curls well brushed up, and his tassely tail wav- 
ing proudly over his back. 

Feeling eminently respectable and comfortable, 
the wanderers humbly presented themselves, and 
were greeted with smiles of approval from the little 
girls and a hospitable welcome from "Ma," who 
set them near the stove to dry, as both were de- 
cidedly damp after their ablutions. 

"I declare I shouldn't have known you ["ex- 
claimed the good woman, surveying the boy with 
great satisfaction ; for, though still very thin and 
tired, the lad had a tidy look that pleased her, and 
a lively way of moving about in his clothes, like 
an eel in a skin rather too big for him. The merry 
black eyes seemed to see everything, the voice 
had an honest sound, and the sun-burnt face looked 
several years younger since the unnatural despond- 
ency had gone out of it. 

"It's very nice, and me and Sanch are lots 
obliged, ma'am," murmured Ben, getting red and 
bashful under the three pairs of friendly eyes fixed 
upon him. 

Bab and Betty were doing up the tea-things with 
unusual dispatch, so that they might entertain 
their guest, and just as Ben spoke Bab dropped a 
cup. To her great surprise no smash followed, for, 
bending quickly, the boy caught it as it fell, and 
presented it to her on the back of his hand with a 
little bow. 

" Gracious ! how could you do it ? " asked Bab, 
looking as if she thought there was magic about it. 

"That's nothing; look here," and taking two 
plates Ben sent them spinning up into the air, 
catching and throwing so rapidly that Bab and 
Betty stood with their mouths open, as if to swal- 
low the plates should they fall, while Mrs. Moss, 




with her dish-cloth suspended, watched the antics 
of her crockery with a housewife's anxiety. 

" That does beat all ! " was the only exclamation 
she had time to make, for, as if desirous of showing 
his gratitude in the only way he could, Ben took 
several clothes-pins from a basket near jby, sent 
several saucers twirling up, caught them on the 
pins, balanced the pins on chin, nose, forehead, 
and went walking about with a new and peculiar 
sort of toad-stool ornamenting his countenance. 

The children were immensely tickled, and Mrs. 
Moss was so amused she would have lent her best 
soup-tureen if he had expressed a wish for it. But 
Ben was too tired to show all his accomplish- 

you up to Judge Allen. I would n't like to-do that, 
for he is a harsh sort of a man ; so, if you have n't 
done anything bad, you need n't be afraid to 
speak out, and I '11 do what I can for you," said 
Mrs. Moss, rather sternly, as she went and sat 
down in her rocking-chair, as if about to open 
the court. 

" I have n't done anything bad, and I dint 
afraid, only I don't want to go back ; and if I 
tell, may be you '11 let 'em know where I be," 
said Ben, much distressed between his longing 
to confide in his new friend and his fear of his 
old enemies. 

" If they abused you, of course I would n't. Tell 


ments at once, and he soon stopped, looking as 
if he almost regretted having betrayed that he 
possessed any. 

" I guess you 've been in the juggling business," 
said Mrs. Moss, with a wise nod, for she saw the 
same look on his face as when he said his name 
was Ben Brown, — the look of one who was not tell- 
ing the whole truth. 

"Yes,'m. I used to help Senior Pedro, the 
Wizard of the World, and I learned some of his 
tricks," stammered Ben, trying to seem innocent. 

" Now, look here, boy, you 'd better tell me the 
whole story, and tell it true, or I shall have to send 

the truth and I '11 stand by you. Girls, you go for 
the milk." 

"Oh, Ma, do let us stay! We'll never tell, 
truly, truly ! " cried Bab and Betty, full of dismay 
at being sent off when secrets were about to be 

" I don't mind 'em," said Ben, handsomely. 

" Very well, only hold your tongues. Now, boy, 
where did you come from?" said Mrs. Moss, as 
the little girls hastily sat down together on their 
private and particular bench opposite their mother, 
brimming with curiosity and beaming with satis- 
faction at the prospect before them. 

(To be continued.) 





By Edwin C. Taylor. 

" Did you see those funny little china figures at 
the Centennial when you were there ? " asked Willie 
of his cousin Al on their way home from school 
one day. 

" What figures, Will ? Do you mean those large 
red clay things from England, or the Chinese 
figures that Mr. Wu had at his place ?" said Al. 

" I don't mean 
either; Isaidsmall 
figures. Don't you 
remember a splen- 
did show of pottery 
near the music- 
stand in the main 
building ? " asked 
"Yes," said Al. 
"Well, there was 
a lot of figures 
of London street- 
people, and some 
were the funniest- 
looking things you 
ever saw." 

" I saw so much 
china and ' pot- 
tery,' as you call 
it, that I hardly 
recollect any of 
; it. But ' pottery,' 
HP? I thought, meant 
merely flower-pots 
london cabman (royal Worcester and other ordinary 
porcelain). stone-ware?" 

"Why, no," said Willie; "it means anything 
that is formed of earth and hardened by fire. I 
heard Uncle Jack say so, and he knows, does n't 
he?" said Willie, decidedly. 

" Of course ; but people do call these things 
'china' or 'porcelain' as well as 'pottery,' don't 

" Yes ; but Uncle Jack says ' pottery ' means all 
those together, and ' porcelain,' ' majolica,' and 
other names like that are names of different kinds 
of pottery," answered Willie. 

"Well," said Al, " let 's ask Uncle Jack to tell 
us all about it. What do you say ?" 

"Yes ; let 's ask him this very night." 

When the lads reached home they told their 
plan to Willie's sister Matie, and then all three 
determined to carry it out. 

" Rap-a-tap, tap," sounded briskly at the library 
door after supper. " Come in," was the response, 
and in bounded the three children, their faces 
lighted up with smiles at the prospect of spending 
an evening with Uncle Jack. 

" Welcome, youngsters," said he, in a cheery 
tone. " But you look as if you were expecting 
something; what is it?" 

" Oh, Uncle Jack, we want you to tell us all 
about pottery," cried the boys. 

" Yes, please do," chimed in Matie. 

"All about pottery? Why, my dear children, 
that 's very like asking me to tell you all about the 
whole civilized world, for a complete history of one 
would be almost a history of the other; and I could 
hardly do that, you know," said Uncle Jack, with 
a smile. , 

" Willie said you could talk about pottery all 
night," cried Matie. 

" And so I might, dear, and not get further than 
the ABC of its history, after all," answered Uncle 

" But how many kinds are there, uncle ?" asked 

" That question demands an answer that must 
teach something," said Uncle Jack. " There are 
two general kinds." 

" Why, I saw a thousand kinds at the Centen- 
nial," interrupted Al, with a wise look. 


"That may be," said his uncle. "But then, 
too, you saw a thousand kinds of people, and yet 
all those people were either men or women ; so all 

i8 7 7- ] 



pottery comes under the two general classes of 
' hard paste ' and ' soft paste. ' " 

" Why, none of it was soft, Uncle Jack, was it? 


I thought it was all baked hard," said Will, looking 

" So all pottery is baked hard, for, until it is 
made hard by firing, it is only wet clay and sand, 
— in pretty shapes, perhaps, but not fit for any use 
or ornament, — and is not yet pottery." 

" Then why is it called ' soft ?' " 

"You've seen pieces of stone that you could 
grind to powder under your heel ? You 'd call 
them ' soft.' Other pieces you could n't crush, and 
you'd call them 'hard.' That is something like 
what is meant by ' hard ' and ' soft ' applied to 
pottery, — at least, ' soft ' does n't mean soft like 

" But if it 's all baked, why is n't it all hard 
alike?" asked Will. 

" Because different clays are used, and different 
degrees of heat applied. At one time we get a 
kind of pottery that can be scratched with a knife, 
at another a ware too hard to be so scratched ; the 
one is called ' soft paste ' and the other ' hard 

The boys seemed to be satisfied with this expla- 

" Uncle, did n't you see at the Centennial some 
funny little figures representing all sorts of London 
street-people ? " asked Will. 

" Yes, and I brought one with me, I think. Ah ! 

here 's one," he said, showing them a droll little 

man about four inches high, "and it looks very like 

a London cabman — or 'cabby,' as he is called." 

Vol. V.— 8. 

" He 's very homely," said Matic. " Where was 
he made, Uncle Jack ? " 

Her uncle turned the figure over, and, looking 
at a small round impression on the under side, 
answered: "At the Royal Worcester Works in 
England, where some of the best of modern 
porcelain has been made." 

" Is that hard paste or soft, Uncle Jack ? " asked 
Willie, while Al, as if inclined to test the matter, 
began a search in his pockets for a knife. 

"This is hard paste porcelain ; it is 'translucent,' 
— that is, it shows the light through," and he held 
the little cabman before the lamp. 

" Here 's another piece from the same factory," 
continued he, selecting a second specimen from 
the cabinet. " This is a copy of the Chinese ' con- 
ventional dog,' made of blue 'crackle-ware.' You 
see, the glaze is cracked all over the surface," he 

" Who ever saw a blue dog ? " cried Matie. 

" In life, no one, my dear; but there are many 


things in Chinese art that are not much like living 

" I suppose you have all heard of Dresden 
china," presently continued her uncle. 

" Oh yes, sir !" cried Al. " Aunt Susie had a 




Dresden tea-pot that belonged to her grandmother, 
and she said the tea always tasted better out of it 
than from anything else." 

" Well, here is an excellent French copy of an 
old Dresden figure. It is a pretty flower-girl. See 
how gracefully she reaches for a nosegay from her 
basket. I have seen bouquets of Dresden porcelain 
that you could hardly distinguish from real flowers," 
said Uncle Jack. 

" You 'd hardly think that such a beautiful thing 
was made from common earth," said Will. 

" Nor is it," said his uncle. " This kind of china 
is made from a very fine and very rare clay that, 
for a long time, was found only in China and 
the Corean islands ; but about a hundred and sixty 
years ago, a noted chemist of Meissen, in Saxony, 


named Bottcher, discovered a bed of it there, and 
manufactured the first true porcelain made in 
Europe," said Uncle Jack. 

"Why couldn't they get the fine clay from 
China and make their porcelain anywhere ? " asked 

" Because the Chinese jealously kept all their 
clay to themselves," answered Uncle Jack. 

" How did that man come to discover where the 
clay was, and if it was of the right kind ? " asked Al. 

" By a strange chance. According to the fashion 
of the time, men powdered their hair, using wheat 
flour for that purpose. One day a neighbor of the 
chemist, in traveling an unfrequented part of the 
country, observed on his horse's hoofs some white 




sticky clay, and it occurred to him that this white 
clay, dried and powdered, would make an excellent 
and cheap substitute for wheat flour as a hair pow- 
der. So he carried a little home with him, and 
some of it finally reached Bottcher. The chemist 
found it extremely heavy, and, fearing the pres- 
ence of some metal hurtful to the skin, he tested 
the clay in his laboratory. To his surprise and joy 
this white hair-powder proved itself possessed of 
the same qualities as the veritable Chinese kaolin, 
as their clay is called." 

" Why, that sounds like a story," said Matie. 

" Here now," said Uncle Jack, " is a vase; that 
might carry the mind back thousands of years, to 
the time when bodies were burned instead of buried, 
and the ashes kept in just such urns as this." 

"Is that vase thousands of years old?" asked 

" No, dear; this vase is only modeled after the 
ancient cinerary urns, as they were called, and was 
made a year or two ago by Ipsen, of Copenhagen." 

" That is n't porcelain, is it, uncle ? " asked Al. 

"No, this is 'terra cotta,' which is Italian for 
' earth cooked.' Those beautiful lines of color and 
gilding are painted on the surface." 

" Did you ever see any real antique vases, uncle?" 
asked Willie. 

" Why, certainly. There are some in the Ces- 
nola collection at our Metropolitan Museum of Art 
in Fourteenth street that are known to have been 
made 1,400 years before the Christian era. They 
were found on the island of Cyprus, in the Medi- 
terranean Sea, by General Di Cesnola, who dug up 
a great many articles, — statues, ornaments of gold, 
silver and bronze, beautiful glass bottles, and many 
domestic utensils. I saw a cullender made of such 
earthenware as we have in the kitchen at this day ; 
it had been used as a milk-strainer, and particles 
of dried milk were still clinging to its sides, after 
lying buried more than three thousand years." 

" Oh, we must go and see them !" cried Matie 
and the boys. 

" Yes, you certainly should go," said their uncle. 
"You would see some very curious things there, 




and the elegant forms of many of the articles would 
show you that a love for beauty has existed almost 
as long as man has lived." 

" You were thinking of ancient times when you 

SMS?, »WSl 


said the history of pottery was almost that of the 
civilized world ; were n't you, uncle ? " asked Will. 

"Yes," answered his uncle, taking from his 
cabinet a small jug covered with rich gilding, and 
glistening as if set with precious stones. 

" Oh, is n't that lovely ? " cried Matie. 

" Well, yes; some people think that this jeweled 
porcelain, as it is called, is among the choicest of 
Copeland's works." 

"Whose, sir?" 

" Copeland, of Stoke-upon-Trent, where are 
some of the largest potteries in England." 

" But don't you like it, uncle ? " asked Matie. 

" I do admire it very much, Matie ; but not so 
much as some more simple objects that I have. 
Here is something that will explain my meaning," 
he added, taking from the cabinet a little vase of 
grayish-brown with darker indented lines drawn in 
the form of small animals, flowers and foliage. 

"Oh, I've seen ever so many pieces like that, 
and I thought they were common stone-ware, the 
same as the kitchen dishes," said Al. 

" They are of common clay, it is true, but look 
at the drawing of the figures," said his uncle, point- 
ing to the tracery upon the surface of the vase. 

"Why, yes; it almost seems as if that little 
rabbit would run away, it is so life-like," said 

" It was not only for its beauty that I valued this 
vase, but for the story that it tells," said Uncle 
Jack. " In the first place it tells that the simple 
earth we walk upon can be made by man into 
works of enduring beauty^" 

"Where was that vase made, uncle?" asked 

"At the Doulton Works, Lambeth, England." 

"What is the rest of the story about it?" in- 
quired Al. 

" For many years, common drain-pipes and 
building-tiles were the only things made at the 
Doulton works ; but some of the pottery people 
went to an art school, and they thought it would 
be a good idea to ornament some of the common 
things they made with the designs they had learned 
to draw at school. So, with a bit of pointed stick, 
they made some of their favorite pictures on the 
soft clay objects ; and when these were fired, the 


glaze flowed into the lines, making them darker 
than the other parts, and thus the drawings showed 

"And since they found that out, have they given 
up making common pipes and tiles?" asked Willie, 
with a look of interest. 




• " They still make quantities of those things at 
the Doulton works, but the young men and women 
who had received drawing lessons and applied their 
knowledge so well are the authors, I might almost 
say, of a new style of artistic pottery," said Uncle 
Jack, in reply. 

"Why, that was splendid, wasn't it?" cried 

" Indeed it was a triumph not only for them, but 
for art itself, and it shows what a good influence 
art has on even the humblest people," said Uncle 
Jack. " Now can you see why I did not value my 
little vase most for if beauty ? " 

" Oh yes, sir ! for when you see it, you think of 
the potters who became artists," said Will. 

" Yes, and I never see any work of art or of 
patient industry without trying to understand the 
meaning its maker meant it to carry, and to re- 
member the toils that were perhaps endured in its 
production," replied his uncle. Then, turning to 
Matie, he said : " I brought this little ' English 
pug-dog ' for you, Matie. He does n't bite, and 
you '11 not need to give him any food," and he put 
upon the table a comical little porcelain dog with a 
wry nose. 

" Oh ! is n't it funny ? What an ugly black nose 
it has ! " cried Matie. " Will the black come off?" 

"Oh, no!" 

" Why not ? " asked Al. 

" Because it's fired; that is, after having been 
painted, the dog was placed in a furnace and heated 

"Are the colors like those I have in my paint- 
box ? " asked Willie. 

" No. They put the color on, worked up with 



so as to melt the coloring matter, which had been 
mixed with other ingredients, so that it flowed on 
the surface, and cooled hard like glass." 

what is called a flux, and the mixture has the ap- 
pearance of thin mud, showing no color at all; the 
different tints are seen only after ' firing.'" 

" How can they tell what it 's going to look 
like, if they don't see the color ? " 

" That is one of the nice points of the 'ceramic 
art,' and much skill and fine imagination are re- 
quired to produce some of the wonderful combina- 
tions of color seen upon Italian majolica." 

" Why do they call it majolica ? " asked Al. 
"The name is derived from the Spanish 
island of Majorca in the Mediterranean Sea, 
one of the places in Europe where glazed pot- 
tery was first made. About the twelfth century, 
some Moorish potters had settled there and 
carried their art with them." 

" Did you ever see any of the old Italian 
majolica, uncle ? " asked Al. 

"Yes; in the splendid Castellani collection 
there are some of the very best specimens of 
the finest majolica ever made, — that produced 
in the fifteenth century by Giorgio Andreoli of 
Gubbio. and others who followed him." 
" Where is Gubbio ? " asked Al. 
" In Italy." 

" Is the Castellani collection in Italy?" 

" No, it 's at the Metropolitan Museum, too ; 

but only on loan at present, though an effort 

is being made to purchase and keep it in this 

country forever. I hope it will be successful, 

for it is a grand collection. But I must tell you 

that when the French came to manufacture 

majolica, most of which by that time was made 

in the little Italian town of Faenza, they called 

the ware faience, after it. This name is applied 

1 877.] 



to most soft paste glazed pottery, while majolica is 
a ware that has a peculiar luster, and in different 
lights displays all the colors of the rainbow. Much 
ordinary glazed, unlustered pottery is incorrectly 
called majolica, however." 

" How do they make the luster, uncle ? " 
" By coating the ware with certain metallic 
oxides, which, at the last of the many necessary 
firings, diffuses a glaze over the surface." 

" You said the painting was one of the ' nice 
points of the ceramic art,' uncle. What does 
' ceramic ' mean ? " asked Willie. 

" It is sometimes spelled K-e-r-a-m-i-c, keramic, 
and comes from the Greek word xt'pa(/.oj, signifying 
' potters' clay,' and hence, in a general sense, pot- 
tery of every kind and methods of producing it." 

Here Matie, who had been hugging her little 
pug for some time, began to grow very sleepy, so 
Uncle Jack dismissed the children with a " good- 
night " all around. 

The door closed softly, and the little ones ran 
off to their beds, while Uncle Jack leaned back in 
his easy chair in a pleasant reverie, which we will 
leave him to enjoy. 


[Elaine and Dora Read Goodale. the two sisters some of whose poems are here given for the benefit of the readers of St. Nicholas, 
are children of thirteen and ten years of age. 

Their home, where their infancy and childhood have been passed, is on a large and isolated farm, lying upon the broad slopes of the 
beautiful Berkshire hills of western Massachusetts, and is quaintly called " Sky Farm.'* 

Here, in a simple country life, divided between books and nature, they began, almost as soon as they began to talk, to express in verse 
what they saw and felt, rhyme and rhythm seeming to come by instinct. Living largely out-of-doors, vigorous and healthful in body as in 
mind, they draw pleasure and instruction from all about them 

One of their chief delights is to wander over the lovely hills and meadows adjoining Sky Farm. Peeping into mossy dells, where wild 
flowers love to hide, hunting the early arbutus, the queen harebell, or the blue gentian, they leam the secrets of nature, and these they 
pour forth in song as simply and as naturally as the birds sing] 

Some Verses, written by Dora, on a Hum- 
ming-Bird's Nest, which she found over 
her Stocking on Christmas Morning. 

When June was bright with roses fair, 
And leafy trees about her stood, 

When summer sunshine filled the air 
And flickered through the quiet wood, 

There, in its shade and silent rest, 

A tiny pair had built their nest. 

And when July, with scorching heat, 
Had dried the meadow grass to hay, 

And piled in stacks about the field 
Or fragrant in the barn it lay, 

Within the nest so softly made 

Two tiny, snowy eggs were laid. 

But when October's ripened fruit 
Had bent the very tree-tops down, 

And dainty flowers faded, drooped, 
And stately forests lost their crown, 

Their brood was hatched and reared and flown — 

The mossy nest was left alone. 

And now the hills are cold and white, 
'T is sever'd from its native bough ; 

We gaze upon it with delight ; 

Where are its cunning builders now ? 

Far in the sunny south they roam, 

And leave to us their northern home. 

The Grumbler. 
His Youth. 

His coat was too thick and his cap was too thin, 
He could n't be quiet, he hated a din ; 
He hated to write, and he hated to read, 
He was certainly very much injured indeed ; 
He must study and work over books he detested, 
His parents were strict, and he never was rested ; 
He knew he was wretched as wretched could be, 
There was no one so wretchedly wretched as he. 

His Maturity. 

His farm was too small and his taxes too big. 
He was selfish and lazy, and cross as a pig ; 
His wife was too silly, his children too rude; 
And just because he was uncommonly good, 




He never had money enough or to spare, 
He had nothing at all fit to eat or to wear ; 
He knew he was wretched as wretched could be, 
There was no one so wretchedly wretched as he. 

His Old Age. 

He finds he has sorrows more deep than his fears, 
He grumbles to think he has grumbled for years ; 
He grumbles to think he has grumbled away 
His home and his fortune, his life's little day. 
But, alas ! 't is too late, — it is no use to say 
That his eyes are too dim, and his hair is too gray. 
He knows he is wretched as wretched can be, 
There is no one more wretchedly wretched than he. 



For stately trees in rich array, 
For sunlight all the happy day, 
For blossoms radiant and rare, 
For skies when daylight closes, 
For joyous, clear, outpouring song 
From birds that all the green wood throng, 
For all things young, and bright, and fair, 
We praise thee, Month of Roses ! 

For blue, blue skies of summer calm, 
For fragrant odors breathing balm, 
For quiet, cooling shades where oft 
The weary head reposes, 
For brooklets babbling thro' the fields 
Where Earth her choicest treasures yields, 
For all things tender, sweet and soit, 
We love thee, Month of Roses 1 


Spring Song. 

Oh, the little streams are running, 

Running, running ! — 
Oh, the little streams are running 

O'er the lea ; 
And the green soft grass is springing, 

Springing, springing ! — 
And the green soft grass is springing, 

Fair to see. 

In the woods the breezes whisper, 

Whisper, whisper ! — ■ 
In the woods the breezes whisper 

To the flowers ; 
And the robins sing their welcome, 

Welcome, welcome ! — 
And the robins sing their welcome, — 

Happy hours ! 

Over all the sun is shining, 

Shining, shining ! — 
Over all the sun is shining, 

Clear and bright, — 
Flooding bare and waiting meadows, 

Meadows, meadows ! — 
Flooding bare and waiting meadows 

With his light. 

Sky Farm, March, '76. ELAINE. 

[Grown people often write in sympathy with children, but here is a 
little poem by a child written in sympathy with grown folks:] 

Ashes of Roses. 

SOFT on the sunset sky 

Bright daylight closes, 
Leaving, when light doth die, 
Pale hues that mingling lie — 

Ashes of roses. 

When love's warm sun is set, 
Love's brightness closes ; 

Eyes with hot tears are wet, 

In hearts there linger yet 
Ashes of roses. 


Summer is Coming. 

" SUMMER is coming ! " the soft breezes whisper; 
" Summer is coming ! " the glad birdies sing. 
Summer is coming — I hear her quick footsteps ; 
Take your last look at the beautiful Spring. 

Lightly she steps from her throne in the wood- 
lands : 
" Summer is coming, and I cannot stay ; 
Two of my children have crept from my bosom : 
April has left me but lingering May. 

" What tho' bright Summer is crowned with roses, 
Deep in the forest Arbutus doth hide ; 
I am the herald of all the rejoicing ; 

Why must June always disown me?" she cried. 

Down in the meadow she stoops to the daisies, 
Plucks the first bloom from the apple-tree's 
bough : 
" Autumn will rob me of all the sweet apples ; 
I will take one from her store of them now." 

Summer is coming ! I hear the glad echo ; 

Clearly it rings o'er the mountain and plain. 
Sorrowful Spring leaves the beautiful woodlands, 

Bright, happy Summer begins her sweet reign. 


i8 7 7-I 


I I I 


(A Fairy Tale.) 

By Frank R. Stockton. 

It was a very delightful country where little 
Corette lived. It seemed to be almost always 
summer-time there, for the winters were just long 
enough to make people glad when they were over. 
When it rained, it mostly rained at night, and so 
the fields and gardens had all the water they 
wanted, while the people were generally quite sure 
of a fine day. And, as they lived a great deal out- 
of-doors, this was a great advantage to them. 

planted on purpose for the very little babies to play 
in on the great day. They must be poor, indeed, 
these people said, if they could not raise sweet 
marjoram for their own needs and for exportation, 
and yet have enough left for the babies to play in. 
So, all this day the little youngsters rolled, and 
tumbled, and kicked and crowed in the soft green 
and white beds of the fragrant herb, and pulled it 
up by the roots, and laughed and chuckled, and 



The principal business of the people of this 
country was the raising of sweet marjoram. The 
soil and climate were admirably adapted to the 
culture of the herb, and fields and fields of it were 
to be seen in every direction. At that time, and 
this was a good while ago, very little sweet mar- 
joram was raised in other parts of the world, so this 
country had the trade nearly all to itself. 

The great holiday of the year was the day on 
which the harvest of this national herb began. It 
was called " Sweet Marjoram Day," and the people, 
both young and old, thought more of it than of any 
other holiday in the year. 

On that happy day everybody went out into the 
fields. There was never a person so old, or so 
young, or so busy that he or she could not go to 
help in the harvest. Even when there were sick 
people, which was seldom, they were carried out to 
the fields and staid there all day. And they gen- 
erally felt much better in the evening. 

There were always patches of sweet marjoram 

went to sleep in it, and were the happiest babies in 
the world. 

They needed no care, except at dinner-time, so 
the rest of the people gave all their time to gather- 
ing in the crop and having fun. There was always 
lots of fun on this great harvest day, for everybody 
worked so hard that the whole crop was generally 
in the sweet marjoram barns before breakfast, so 
that they had nearly the whole day for games and 

In this country, where little Corette lived, there 
were fairies. Not very many of them, it is true, 
for the people had never seen but two. These 
were sisters, and there were never fairies more 
generally liked than these two little creatures, 
neither of them over four inches high. They were 
very fond of the company of human beings, and 
were just as full of fun as anybody. They often 
used to come to spend an hour or two, and some- 
times a whole day, with the good folks, and they 
seemed always glad to see and to talk to everybody. 




These sisters lived near the top of a mountain in 
a fairy cottage. This cottage had never been seen 
by any of the people, but the sisters had often told 
them all about it. It must have been a charming 

The house was not much bigger than a bandbox, 
and it had two stories and a garret, with a little 
portico running all around it. Inside was the 
dearest little furniture of all kinds, — beds, tables, 
chairs, and everything that could possibly be 

Everything about the house and grounds was on 
the same small scale. There was a little stable 
and a little barn, with a little old man to work the 
little garden and attend to the two little cows. 
Around the house were garden-beds ever so small, 
and little graveled paths ; and a kitchen-garden, 
where the peas climbed up little sticks no bigger 
than pins, and where the little chickens, about the 
size of flics, sometimes got in and scratched up the 
little vegetables. There was a little meadow for 
pasture, and a grove of little trees ; and there was 
also a small field of sweet marjoram, where the 
blossoms were so tiny that you could hardly have 
seen them without a magnifying glass. 

It was not very far from this cottage to the sweet 
marjoram country, and the fairy sisters had no 
trouble at all in running down there whenever they 
felt like it, but none of the people had ever seen 
this little home. They had looked for it, but could 
not find it, and the fairies would never take any of 
them to it. They said it was no place for human 
beings. Even the smallest boy, if he were to trip 
his toe, might fall against their house and knock it 
over ; and as to any of them coming into the fairy 
grounds, that would be impossible, for there was 
no spot large enough for even a common-sized baby 
to creep about in. 

On Sweet Marjoram Day the fairies never failed 
to come. Every year they taught the people new 
games, and all sorts of new ways of having fun. 
People would never have even thought of having 
such good times if it had not been for these 

One delightful afternoon, about a month before 
Sweet Marjoram Day, Corette, who was a little girl 
just old enough, and not a day too old (which is 
exactly the age all little girls ought to be), was 
talking about the fairy cottage to some of her com- 

" We never can see it," said Corette, sorrowfully. 

" No," said one of the other girls, " we are too 
big. If we were little enough, we might go." 

"Are you sure the sisters would be glad to see 
us, then ?" asked Corette. 

" Yes, I heard them say so. But it does n't 
matter at all, as we are not little enough." 

" No," said Corette, and she went off to take a 
walk by herself. 

She had not walked far before she reached a 
small house which stood by the sea-shore. This 
house belonged to a Reformed Pirate who lived 
there all by himself. He had entirely given up a 
sea-faring life so as to avoid all temptation, and he 
employed his time in the mildest pursuits he could 
think of. 

When Corette came to his house, she saw him 
sitting in an easy-chair in front of his door near the 
edge of a small bluff which overhung the sea, busily 
engaged in knitting a tidy. 

When he saw Corette, he greeted her kindly, 
and put aside his knitting, which he was very glad 
to do, for he hated knitting tidies, though he 
thought it was his duty to make them. 

" Well, my little maid," he said, in a sort of a 
muffled voice, which sounded as if he were speaking 
under water, for he tried to be as gentle in every 
way. as he could, "how do you do? You don't 
look quite as gay as usual. Has anything run afoul 
of you ?" 

" Oh no!" said Corette, and she came andstooi 
by him, and taking up his tidy, she looked it ove 
carefully and showed him where he had dropped 
lot of stitches and where he had made some to 
tight and others a great deal too loose. He di 
not know how to knit very well. 

When she had shown him as well as she coul 
how he ought to do it, she sat down on the gra3; 
by his side, and after a while she began to talk to 
him about the fairy cottage, and what a great pity 
it was that it was impossible for her ever to see it. 

" It is a pity," said the Reformed Pirate. " I 've 
heard of that cottage and I 'd like to see it myself. 
In fact, I 'd like to go to see almost anything that 
was proper and quiet, so as to get rid of the sight 
of this everlasting knitting." 

" There are other things you might do besides 
knit," said Corette. 

" Nothing so depressing and suitable," said he, 
with a sigh. 

" It would be of no use for you to think of going 
there," said Corette. " Even I am too large, and 
you are ever and ever so much too big. You 
could n't get one foot into one of their paths." 4 

" I 've no doubt that 's true," he replied; " but 
the thing might be done. Almost anything can 
be done if you set about it in the right way. But 
you see, little maid, that you and I don't know 
enough. Now, years ago, when I was in a dif- 
ferent line of business, I often used to get puzzled 
about one thing or another, and then I went to 
somebody who knew more than myself." 

"Were there many such persons?" asked 




" Well, no. I always went to one old fellow who " But how could we get there ? " asked Corette. 
was a Practicing Wizard. He lived, and still lives, " Oh 1 I 'd manage that," said the Reformed 


I reckon, on an island about fifty miles from here, Pirate, his eyes flashing with animation. " I Ve 

right off there to the sou'-sou'-west. I 've no doubt an old sail-boat back there in the creek that's as 

that if we were to go to him he 'd tell us just how good as ever she was. I could fix her up, and get 

to do this thing." everything all ship-shape in a couple of days, and 




then you and I could scud over there in no time. 
What do you say ? Would n't you like to go ? " 

" Oh, I 'd like to go ever so much ! " cried Cor- 
ette, clapping her hands, " if they 'd let me." 

" Well, run and ask them," said he, rolling up 
his knitting and stuffing it under the cushion of his 
chair, '"'and I'll go and look at that boat right 

So Corette ran home to her father and mother 
and told them all about the matter. They listened 
with great interest, and her father said : 

" Well now, our little girl is not looking quite as 
well as usual. I have noticed that she is a little 
pale. A sea-trip might be the very thing for her." 

" I think it would do her a great deal of good," 
said her mother, " and as to that Reformed Pirate, 
she 'd be just as safe with him as if she was on dry 

So it was agreed that Corette should go. Her 
father and mother were always remarkably kind. 

and as he was to do it for the benefit of a good 
little girl, it was all perfectly right and proper. 

When they started off, the next day but one, all 
the people who lived near enough, came down to 
see them off. Just as they were about to start, the 
Reformed Pirate said : 

" Hello ! I wonder if I had n't better run back to 
the house and get my sword ! I only wear the 
empty scabbard now, but it might be safer, on a 
trip like this, to take the sword along." 

So he ran back and got it, and then he pushed 
off amid the shouts of all the good people on the 

The boat was quite a good-sized one. and it had 
a cabin and everything neat and comfortable. The 
Reformed Pirate managed it beautifully, all by him- 
self, and Corette sat in the stern and watched the 
waves, and the sky, and the sea-birds, and was very 
happy indeed. 

As for her companion, he was in a state of 


The Reformed Pirate was perfectly delighted 
when he heard this, and he went hard to work to 
get his little vessel ready. To sail again on the 
ocean seemed to him the greatest of earthly joys, 

ecstasy. As the breeze freshened, the sails filled, 
and the vessel went dashing over the waves, he 
laughed and joked, and sang snatches of old sea- 
songs, and was the jolliest man afloat. 

l8 7 7-J 



After a while, as they went thus sailing merrily 
along, a distant ship appeared in sight. The 
moment his eyes fell upon it, a sudden change 
came over the Reformed Pirate. He sprang to his 
feet and, with his hand still upon the helm, he 
leaned forward and gazed at (he ship. He gazed 
and he gazed, and he gazed without saying a word. 
Corette spoke to him several times, but he answered 
not. And as he gazed he moved the helm so that 
his little craft gradually turned from her course, 
and sailed to meet the distant ship. 

As the two vessels approached each other, the 
Reformed Pirate became very much excited. He 
tightened his belt and loosened his sword in its 
sheath. Hurriedly giving the helm to Corette, he 
went forward and jerked a lot of ropes and hooks 
from a cubby-hole where they had been stowed 
away. Then he pulled out a small, dark flag, with 
bits of skeleton painted on it, and hoisted it to the 

By this time he had nearly reached the ship, 
which was a large three-masted vessel. There 
seemed to be a great commotion on board ; sailors 
were running this way and that ; women were 
screaming ; and officers could be heard shouting, 
"Put her about ! Clap on more sail ! " 

But steadily on sailed the small boat, and the 
moment it came alongside the big ship, the Re- 
formed Pirate threw out grapnels and made the 
two vessels fast together. Then he hooked a rope- 
ladder to the side of the ship, and rushing up it, 
sprang with a yell on the deck of the vessel, waving 
his flashing sword around his head ! 

' ' Down, dastards ! varlets ! hounds ! " he shouted. 
" Down upon your knees ! Throw down your 
arms ! Surrender ! " 

Then every man went down upon his knees, and 
threw down his arms and surrendered. 

"Where is your Captain ? " roared their con- 

The Captain came trembling forward. 

" Bring to me your gold and silver, your jewels 
and your precious stones, and your rich stuffs ! " 

The Captain ordered these to be quickly brought 
and placed before the Reformed Pirate, who con- 
tinued to stride to and fro across the deck waving 
his glittering blade, and who, when he saw the 
treasures placed before him, shouted again : 

"Prepare for scuttling!" and then, while the 
women got down on their knees and begged that 
he would not sink the ship, and the children cried, 
and the men trembled so that they could hardly 
kneel straight, and the Captain stood pale and 
shaking before him, he glanced at the pile of treas- 
ure, and touched it with his sword. 

" Aboard with this, my men ! " he said. " But 
first I will divide it. I will divide this into, — into, 

— into one part. Look here ! " and then he paused, 
glanced around, and clapped his hand to his head. 
He looked at the people, the treasure and the 
ship. Then suddenly he sheathed his sword, and. 
stepping up to the Captain, extended his hand. 

"Good sir," said he, "you must excuse me. 
This is a mistake. I had no intention of taking 
this vessel. It was merely a temporary absence of 
mind. I forgot I had reformed, and seeing this 
ship, old scenes and my old business came into my 
head, and I just came and took the vessel without 
really thinking what I was doing. I beg you will 
excuse me. And these ladies, — I am very sorry to 
have inconvenienced them. I ask them to over- 
look my unintentional rudeness." 

" Oh, don't mention it ! " cried the Captain, his 
face beaming with joy as he seized the hand of the 
Reformed Pirate. "It is of no importance, I assure 
you. We are delighted, sir, delighted ! " 

" Oh yes ! " cried all the ladies. " Kind sir, we 
are charmed ! We are charmed 1 " 

" You are all very good indeed," said the Re- 
formed Pirate, " but I really think I was not 
altogether excusable. And I am very sorry that I 
made your men bring up all these things." 

"Not at all 1 not at all!" cried the Captain. 
" No trouble whatever to show them. Very glad 
indeed to have the opportunity. By the by, would 
you like to take a few of them, as a memento 
of your visit ? " 

"Oh no, I thank you," replied the Reformed 
Pirate, " I would rather not." 

" Perhaps, then, some of your men might like 
a trinket or a bit of cloth " 

"Oh, I have no men! There is no one on 
board but myself — excepting a little girl, who is a 
passenger. But I must be going. Good-by, Cap- 
tain ! " 

" I am sorry you are in such a hurry," said the 
Captain. " Is there anything at all that I can do 
for you ? " 

" No, thank you. But stop ! — there may be 
something. Do you sail to any port where there is 
a trade in tidies ?" 

" Oh yes ! To several such," said the Captain. 

" Well, then, I would be very much obliged to 
you," said the Reformed Pirate, "if you would 
sometimes stop off that point that you see there, 
and send a boat ashore to my house for a load of 

" You manufacture them by the quantity, then ? " 
asked the Captain. 

" I expect to," said the other, sadly. 

The Captain promised to stop, and, after shaking 
hands with every person on deck, the Reformed 
Pirate went down the side of the ship, and taking 
in his ladder and his grapnels, he pushed off. 




As he slowly sailed away, having lowered his 
flag, the Captain looked over the side of his ship, 
and said : 

" If I had only known that there was nobody 
but a little girl on board ! I thought, of course, he 
had a boat-load of pirates." 

Corette asked a great many questions about 
everything that had happened on the ship, for she 
had heard the noise and confusion as she sat below 
in the little boat ; but her companion was disposed 
to be silent, and said very little in reply. 

When the trip was over, and they had reached 
the island, the Reformed Pirate made his boat fast, 
and taking little Corette by the hand, he walked 
up to the house of the Practicing Wizard. 

This was a queer place. It was a great rambling 
house, one story high in some places, and nine or 
ten in other places ; and then, again, it seemed to 
run into the ground and re-appear at a short 
distance — the different parts being connected by 
cellars and basements, with nothing but flower- 
gardens over them. 

Corette thought she had never seen such a won- 
derful building ; but she had not long to look at 
the outside of it, for her companion, who had been 
there before, and knew the ways of the place, went 
up to a little door in a two-story part of the house 
and knocked. Our friends were admitted by a 
dark cream-colored slave, who informed them that 
the Practicing Wizard was engaged with other vis- 
itors, but that he would soon be at leisure. 

So Corette and the Reformed Pirate sat down in 
a handsome room, full of curious and wonderful 
things, and, in a short time, they were summoned 
into the Practicing Wizard's private office. 

" Glad to see you," said he, as the Reformed 
Pirate entered. " It has been a long time since 
you were here. What can I do for you, now ? 
Want to know something about the whereabouts 
of any ships, or the value of any cargoes?" 

" Oh, no ! I 'm out of that business now," said 
the other. "I've come this time for something 
entirely different. But I '11 let this little girl tell 
you what it is. She can do it a great deal better 
than I can." 

So Corette stepped up to the Practicing Wizard, 
who was a pleasant, elderly man, with a smooth 
white face, and a constant smile, which seemed to 
have grown on his face instead of a beard, and she 
told him the whole story of the fairy sisters and 
their cottage, of her great desire to see it, and of 
the difficulties in the way. 

" I know all about those sisters," he said ; " I 
don't wonder you want to see their house. You 
both wish to see it ? " 

" Yes," said the Reformed Pirate ; " I might as 
well go with her, if the thing can be done at all." 

" Very proper," said the Practicing Wizard, 
" very proper, indeed. But there is only one 
way in which it can be done. You must be con- 

" Does that hurt ?" asked Corette. 

" Oh, not at all ! You '11 never feel it. For the 
two it will be one hundred and eighty ducats," 
said he, turning to the Reformed Pirate; "we 
make a reduction when there are more than one." 

" Are you willing ? " asked the Reformed Pirate 
of Corette, as he put his hand in his breeches' 

"Oh yes!" said Corette, "certainly I am, if 
that 's the only way." 

Whereupon her good friend said no more, but 
pulled out a hundred and eighty ducats and handed 
them to the Practicing Wizard, who immediately 
commenced operations. 

Corette and the Reformed Pirate were each 
placed in a large easy-chair, and upon each of 
their heads the old white-faced gentleman placed a 
little pink ball, about the size of a pea. Then he 
took a position in front of them. 

"Now then," said he, "sit perfectly still. It 
will be over in a few minutes," and he lifted up a 
long thin stick, and, pointing it toward the couple, 
he began to count : " One, two, three, four " 

As he counted, the Reformed Pirate and Corette 
began to shrink, and by the time he had reached 
fifty they were no bigger than cats. But he kept 
on counting until Corette was about three and a 
half inches high and her companion about five 

Then he stopped, and knocked the pink ball 
from each of their heads with a little tap of his 
long stick. 

" There we are," said he, and he carefully picked 
up the little creatures and put them on a table in 
front of a looking-glass, that they might see how 
they liked his work. 

It was admirably done. .Every proportion had 
been perfectly kept. 

" It seems to me that it could n't be better," said 
the Condensed Pirate, looking at himself from top 
to toe. 

" No," said the Practicing Wizard, smiling rather 
more than usual, " I don't believe it could." 

" But how are we to get away from here ? " said 
Corette to her friend. "A little fellow like you 
can't sail that big boat." 

" No," replied he, ruefully, " that 's true ; I 
could n't do it. But perhaps, sir, you could con- 
dense the boat." 

" Oh no ! " said the old gentleman, " that would 
never do. Such a little boat would be swamped 
before you reached shore, if a big fish did n't swal- 
low you. No, I '11 see that you get away safely." 




So saying, he went to a small cage that stood in 
a window, and took from it a pigeon. 

" This fellow will take you," said he. " He is 
very strong and swift, and will go ever so much 
faster than your boat." 

Next he fastened a belt around the bird, and to 
the lower part of this he hung a little basket, with 

trees, where the ripe peaches and apples hung, as 
big as peas, and they knocked at the door of the 
fairy sisters. 

When these two little ladies came to the door, 
they were amazed to see Corette. 

" Why, how did you ever ? " they cried. " And 
if there is n't our old friend the Reformed Pirate ! " 


two seats in it. He then lifted Corette and the 
Condensed Pirate into the basket, where they sat 
down opposite one another. 

" Do you wish to go directly to the cottage of 
the fairy sisters ? " said the old gentleman. 

" Oh yes ! " said Corette. 

So he wrote the proper address on the bill of the 
pigeon, and, opening the window, carefully let the 
bird fly. 

"I '11 take care of your boat," he cried to the 
Condensed Pirate, as the pigeon rose in the air. 
" You '11 find it all right, when you come back." 

And he smiled worse than ever. 

The pigeon flew up to a great height, and then 
he took flight in a straight line for the Fairy 
Cottage, where he arrived before his passengers 
thought they had half finished their journey. 

The bird alighted on the ground, just outside of 
the boundary fence ; and when Corette and her 
companion had jumped from the basket, he rose 
and flew away home as fast as he could go. 

The Condensed Pirate now opened a little gate 
in the fence, and he and Corette walked in. They 
went up the graveled path, and under the fruit- 

" Condensed Pirate, if you please," said that 
individual. " There 's no use of my being reformed 
while I 'm so small as this. I could n't hurt any- 
body if I wanted to." 

" Well, come right in, both of you," said the 
sisters, " and tell us all about it." 

So they went in, and sat in the little parlor, and 
told their story. The fairies were delighted with 
the whole affair, and insisted on a long visit, to 
which our two friends were not at all opposed. 

They found everything at this cottage exactly as 
they had been told. They ate the daintiest little 
meals off the daintiest little dishes, and they thor- 
oughly enjoyed all the delightful little things in the 
little place. Sometimes, Corette and the fairies 
would take naps in little hammocks under the 
trees, while the Condensed Pirate helped the little 
man drive up the little cows, or work in the little 

On the second day of their visit, when they were 
all sitting on the little portico after supper, one of 
the sisters, thinking that the Condensed Pirate 
might like to have something to do, and knowing 
how he used to occupy himself, took from her 




basket a little half-knit tidy, with the needles in it, 
and asked him if he cared to amuse himself with 

" No, ma'am ! " said he, firmly but politely. 
" Not at present. If I find it necessary to reform 
again, I may do something of the kind, but not 
now. But I thank you kindly, all the same." 

After this, they were all very careful not to men- 
tion tidies to him. 

Corette and her companion stayed with the fairies 
for more than a week. Corette knew that her father 
and mother did not expect her at home for some 
time, and so she felt quite at liberty to stay as long 
as she pleased. 

As to the sisters, they were delighted to have 
their visitors with them. 

But, one day, the Condensed Pirate, finding 
Corette alone, led her, with great secrecy, to the 
bottom of the pasture field, the very outskirts of 
the fairies' domain. 

" Look here," said he, in his lowest tones. " Do 
you know, little Corette, that things are not as I 
expected them to be here ? Everything is very 
nice and good, but nothing appears very small to 
me. Indeed, things seem to be just about the 
right size. How does it strike you ? " 

" Why, I have been thinking the same thing," 
said Corette. " The sisters used to be such dear, 
cunning little creatures, and now they 're bigger 
than I am. But I don't know what can be done 
about it." 

" I know," said the Condensed Pirate. 

" What ? " asked Corette. 

"Condense 'em," answered her companion, 

" Oh ! But you could n't do that ! " exclaimed 

" Yes, but I can — at least, I think I can. You 
remember those two pink condensing balls ? " 

" Yes," said Corette. 

" Well, I 've got mine." 

" You have ! " cried Corette. "How did you 
get it ? " 

" Oh ! when the old fellow knocked it off my 
head, it fell on the chair beside me, and I picked it 
up and put it in my coat-pocket. It would just go 
in. He charges for the balls, and so I thought I 
might as well have it." 

" But do you know how he works them ? " 

" Oh yes ! " replied the Condensed Pirate. " I 
watched him. What do you say ? Shall we con- 
dense this whole place ? " 

" It wont hurt them," said Corette, " and I don't 
really think they would mind it." 

" Mind it ! No ! " said the other. " I believe 
they'd like it." 

So it was agreed that the Fairy Cottage, inmates. 

and grounds should be condensed until they were, 
relatively, as small as they used to be. 

That afternoon, when the sisters were taking a 
nap and the little man was at work in the barn, the 
Condensed Pirate went up into the garret of the 
cottage and got out on the roof. Then he climbed 
to the top of the tallest chimney, which overlooked 
everything on the place, and there he laid his little 
pink ball. 

He then softly descended, and, taking Corette 
by the hand (she had been waiting for him on the 
portico), he went down to the bottom of the pasture 

When he was quite sure that he and Corette 
were entirely outside of the fairies' grounds, he 
stood up, pointed to the ball with a long, thin stick 
which he had cut, and began to count: "One, 
two, three " 

And as he counted the cottage began to shrink. 
Smaller and smaller it became, until it got to be 
very little indeed. 

" Is that enough?" said the Condensed Pirate, 
hurriedly between two counts. 

"No," replied Corette. "There is the little 
man, just come out of the barn. He ought to be 
as small as the sisters used to be. I '11 tell you 
when to stop." 

So the counting went on until Corette said, 
"Stop!" and the cottage was really not much 
higher than a thimble. The little man stood by 
the barn, and seemed to Corette to be just about 
the former size of the fairy sisters ; but, in fact, he 
was not quite a quarter of an inch high. Every- 
thing on the place was small in proportion, so that 
when Corette said " Stop ! " the Condensed Pirate 
easily leaned over and knocked the pink ball from 
the chimney with his long stick. It fell outside of 
the grounds, and he picked it up and put it in his 

Then he and Corette stood and admired every- 
thing ! It was charming ! It was just what they 
had imagined before they came there. While they 
were looking with delight at the little fields, and 
trees, and chickens, — so small that really big peo- 
ple could not have seen them, — and at the cute 
little house, with its vines and portico, the two sis- 
ters came out on the little lawn. 

When they saw Corette and her companion they 
were astounded. 

"Why, when did you grow big again?" they 
cried. " Oh ! how sorry we are 1 Now you can- 
not come into our house and live with us any 

Corette and the Condensed Pirate looked at 
each other, as much as to say, "They don't know 
they have been made so little." 

Then Corette said : " We are sorry too. I sup- 

i8 7 7-J 


Il 9 

pose we shall have to go away now. But we have 
had a delightful visit." 

" It has been a charming one for us," said one 
of the sisters, "and if we only had known, we 
would have had a little party before you went away ; 
but now it is too late." 

The Condensed Pirate said nothing. He felt 
rather guilty about the matter. He might have 
waited a little, and yet he could not have told them 
about it. They might have objected to be con- 

" May we stay just a little while and look at 
things?" asked Corette. 

"Yes," replied one of the fairies; "but you 
must be very careful not to step inside the grounds, 
or to stumble over on our place. You might do 
untold damage." 

So the two little big people stood and admired 
the fairy cottage and all about it, for this was 
indeed the sight they came to see ; and then they 
took leave of their kind entertainers, who would 
have been glad to have them stay longer, but were 
really trembling with apprehension lest some false 
step or careless movement might ruin their little 

As Corette and the Condensed Pirate took their 
way through the woods to their home, they found 
it very difficult to get along, they were so small. 
When they came to a narrow stream, which Corette 
would once have jumped over with ease, the Con- 
densed Pirate had to make a ferry-boat of a piece 
of bark, and paddle himself and the little girl 

" I wonder how the fairies used to come down to 
us," said Corette, who was struggling along over 
the stones and moss, hanging on to her com- 
panion's hand. 

" Oh 1 I expect they have a nice smooth path 
somewhere through the woods, where they can run 
along as fast as they please ; and bridges over the 

" Why did n't they tell us of it ? " asked Corette. 

" They thought it was too little to be of any use 
' to us. Don't you see ? — they think we 're big 
people and would n't need their path." 

" Oh, yes ! " said Corette. 

In time, however, they got down the mountain 
and out of the woods, and then they climbed up 
on one of the fences and ran along the top of it 
toward Corette's home. 

When the people saw them, they cried out : 
"Oh, here come our dear little fairies, who have not 
visited us for so many days ! " But when they saw 
them close at hand, and perceived that they were 
little Corette and the Pirate who had reformed, 
they were dumbfounded. 

Corette did not stop to tell them anything ; but 

still holding her companion's hand, she ran on to 
her parents' house, followed by a crowd of neigh- 

Corette's father and mother could hardly believe 
that this little thing was their daughter, but there 
was no mistaking her face and her clothes, and her 
voice, although they were all so small ; and when 
she had explained the matter to them, and to the 
people who filled the house, they understood it alL 
They were filled with joy to have their daughter 
back again, little or big. 

When the Condensed Pirate went to his house, 
he found the door locked, as he had left it, but he 
easily crawled in through a crack. He found 
everything of an enormous size. It did not look 
like the old place. He climbed up the fog of a 
chair and got on a table, by the help of the table- 
cloth, but it was hard work. He found something 
to eat and drink, and all his possessions were in 
order, but he did not feel at home. 

Days passed on, and while the Condensed Pirate 
did not feel any better satisfied, a sadness seemed 
to spread over the country, and particularly over 
Corette's home. The people grieved that they 
never saw the fairy sisters, who indeed had made 
two or three visits, with infinite trouble and toil, 
but who could not make themselves observed, their 
bodies and their voices being so very small. 

And Corette's father and mother grieved. They 
wanted their daughter to be as she was before. 
They said that Sweet Marjoram Day was very near, 
but that they could not look forward to it with 
pleasure. Corette might go out to the fields, but 
she could only sit upon some high place, as the 
fairies used to sit. She could not help in the 
gathering. She could not even be with the babies ; 
they would roll on her and crush her. So they 

It was now the night before the great holiday. 
Sweet Marjoram Eve had not been a very gay 
time, and the people did not expect to have much 
fun the next day. How could they if the fairy 
sisters did not come ? Corette felt badly, for she 
had never told that the sisters had been condensed, 
and the Condensed Pirate, who had insisted on her 
secrecy, felt worse. That night he lay in his great 
bed, really afraid to go to sleep on account of rats 
and mice. 

He was so extremely wakeful that he lay and 
thought, and thought, and thought for a long time, 
and then he got up and dressed and went out. 

It was a beautiful moonlight night, and he made 
his way directly to Corette's house. There, by 
means of a vine, he climbed up to her window, 
and gently called her. She was not sleeping 
well, and she soon heard him and came to the 




He then asked her to bring him two spools of good plan in his head, and he hurried down the 

fine thread. vine, took up a spool under each arm, and bent his 

Without asking any questions, she went for the way to the church. This building had a high 

thread, and very soon made her appearance at the steeple which overlooked the whole country. He 


window with one spool in her arms, and then she left one of his spools outside, and then, easily creep- 
went back for another. ing with the other under one of the great doors, he 

"Now, then," said the Condensed Pirate, when carried it with infinite pains and labor up into the 

he had thrown the spools down to the ground, belfry. 

"will you dress yourself and wait here at the win- There he tied it on his back, and, getting out of 

dow until I come and call you?" a window, began to climb up the outside of the 

Corette promised, for she thought he had some steeple. 




It was not hard for him to do this, for the rough 
stones gave him plenty of foot-hold, and he soon 
stood on the very tip-top of the steeple. He then 
took tight hold of one end of the thread on his 
spool and let the spool drop. The thread rapidly 
unrolled, and the spool soon touched the ground. 

Then our friend took from his pocket the pink 
ball, and passing the end of the thread through a 
little hole in the middle of it, he tied it firmly. 
Placing the ball in a small depression on the top 
of the steeple, he left it there, with the thread 
hanging from it, and rapidly descended to the 
ground. Then he took the other spool and tied 
the end of its thread to that which was hanging 
from the steeple. 

He now put down the spool and ran to call Cor- 
ette. When she heard his voice she clambered 
down the vine to him. 

" Now, Corette," he said, " run to my house 
and stand on the beach, near the water, and wait 
for me." 

Corette ran off as he had asked, and he went 
back to his spool. He took it up and walked slowly 
to his house, carefully unwinding the thread as he 
went. The church was not very far from the sea- 
shore, so he soon joined Corette. With her assist- 
ance he then unwound the rest of the thread, 
and made a little coil. 'He next gave the coil to 
Corette to hold, cautioning her to be very careful, 
and then he ran off to where some bits of wood 
were lying, close to the water's edge. Selecting a 
little piece of thin board he pushed it into the 
water, and taking a small stick in his hand, he 
jumped on it, and poled it along to where Corette 
was standing. The ocean here formed a little bay 
where the water was quite smooth. 

" Now, Corette," said the Condensed Pirate, 
" we must be very careful. I will push this ashore 
and you must step on board, letting out some of 
the thread as you come. Be sure not to pull it 
tight. Then I will paddle out a little way, and as I 
push, you must let out more thread." 

Corette did as she was directed, and very soon 
they were standing on tha little raft a few yards 
from shore. Then her companion put down his 
stick, and took the coil of thread. 

"What are you going to do?" asked Corette. 
She had wanted to ask before, but there did not 
seem to be time. 

" Well," said he, " we can't make ourselves any 

bigger — at least, I don't know how to do it, and so 

, I 'm going to condense the whole country. The 

• little pink ball is on top of the steeple, which is 

higher than anything else about here, you know. 

\ I can't knock the ball off at the proper time, so 

|Jj I 've tied a thread to it to pull it off. You and I 

are outside of the place, on the water, so we wont 

Vol. v.— q. 

be made any smaller. If the thing works, every- 
body will be our size, and all will be right again." 

" Splendid ! " cried Corette. " Hut how will you 
know when things are little enough ? " 

" Do you see that door in my house, almost in 
front of us ? Well, when I was of the old size, I 
used just to touch the top of that door with my 
head, if I did n't stoop. When you see that the 
door is about my present height, tell me to stop. 
Now then ! " 

The Condensed Pirate began to count, and in- 
stantly the whole place, church, houses, fields, and 
of course the people who were in bed, began to 
shrink ! He counted a good while before Corette 
thought his door would fit him. At last she called 
to him to stop. He glanced at the door to feel 
sure, counted one more, and pulled the thread. 
Down came the ball, and the size of the place was 

The whole of the sweet marjoram country was 
now so small that the houses were like bandboxes, 
and the people not more than four or five inches 
high — excepting some very tall people who were 
six inches. 

Drawing the ball to him, the Condensed Pirate 
pushed out some distance, broke it from the 
thread, and threw it into the water. 

"No more condensing!" said he. He then 
paddled himself and Corette ashore, and running 
to his cottage, threw open the door and looked 
about him. Everything was just right ! Every- 
thing fitted ! He shouted with joy. 

It was just daybreak when Corette rushed into 
her parents' house. Startled by the noise, her 
father and mother sprang out of bed. 

" Our daughter ! Our darling daughter ! " they 
shouted, " and she has her proper size again ! ! " 

In an instant she was clasped in their arms. 

When the first transports of joy were over, Cor- 
ette sat down and told them the whole story — told 
them everything. 

" It is all right," said her mother, "so that we 
are all of the same size," and she shed tears of joy. 

Corette's father ran out to ring the church-bell, 
so as to wake up the people and tell them the good 
news of his daughter's restoration. When he came 
in, he said : 

" I see no difference in anything. Everybody is 
all right." 

There never was such a glorious celebration of 
Sweet Marjoram Day as took place that day. 

The crop was splendid, the weather was more 
lovely than usual, if such a thing could be, and 
everybody was in the gayest humor. 

But the best thing of all was the appearance of 
the fairy sisters. When they came among the 
people they all shouted as if they had gone wild. 




And the good little sisters were so overjoyed that 
they could scarcely speak. 

" What a wonderful thing it is to find that we 
have grown to our old size again ! We were here 
several times lately, but somehow or other we 
seemed to be so very small that we could n't make 
you see or hear us. But now it 's all right. Hur- 
rah ! We have forty-two new games ! " 

And at that, the crop being all in, the whole 
country, with a shout of joy, went to work to play. 

There were no gayer people to be seen than 
Corette and the Condensed Pirate. Some of his 
friends called this good man by his old name, but 
he corrected them. 

" I am reformed, all the same," he said, "but 
do not call me by that name. I shall never be able 
to separate it from its associations with tidies. And 
with them I am done for ever. Owing to circum- 
stances, I do not need to be depressed." 

The captain of the ship never stopped off the 

coast for a load of tidies. Perhaps he did not care 
to come near the house of his former captor, for 
fear that he might forget himself again, and take 
the ship a second time. But if the captain had 
come, it is not likely that his men would have 
found the cottage of the Condensed Pirate, un- 
less they had landed at the very spot where it 

And it so happened that no one ever noticed this 
country after it was condensed. Passing ships 
could not come near enough to see such a very lit- 
tle place, and there never were any very good roads 
to it by land. 

But the people continued to be happy and pros- 
perous, and they kept up the celebration of Sweet 
Marjoram Day as gayly as when they were all or- 
dinary-sized people. 

In the whole country there were only two per- 
sons, Corette and the Pirate, who really believed 
that they were condensed. 

By S. C. Stone. 

Listen ! and hear the tea-kettle sing : 

" Sing a-sing a-sing a-sing ! " 
It matters not how hot the fire, 
It only sends its voice up higher : 
" Sing a-sing a-sing a-sing ! 
Sing a-sing a-sing a-sing ! " 

Listen ! and hear the tea-kettle sing : 

" Sing a-sing a-sing a-sing ! " 
As if 't were task of fret and toil 
To bring cold water to a boil ! 
" Sing a-sing a-sing a-sing ! 
Sing a-sing a-sing a-sing ! " 





By Gail Hamilton. 

I SUPPOSE the wise young women — fourteen, 
fifteen, sixteen years old — who read St. Nicholas, 
who understand the most complex vulgar fractions, 
who cipher out logarithms "just for fun," who 
chatter familiarly about "Kickero" and " Iuliuse 
Kiser," and can bang a piano dumb and helpless 
in fifteen minutes — they, I suppose, will think me 
frivolous and unaspiring if I beg them to lay aside 
their science, — which is admirable, — and let us 
reason together a few minutes about such unim- 
portant themes as little points of good manners. 

A few months ago I had the pleasure of talking 
with a gentleman who thought he remembered 
being aroused from his midnight sleep by loud 
rejoicings in the house and on the streets over the 
news that Lord Cornwallis had surrendered the 
British to the American forces. He was only two 
years old at that time ; but, he said, he had a very 
strong impression of the house being full of light, 
of many people hurrying hither and yon, and of the 
watchman's voice in the street penetrating through 
all the din with the cry — " Past twelve o'clock and 
Cornwallis is taken ! " 

Among many interesting reminiscences and re- 
flections, this dignified and delightful old gentle- 
man said he thought the young people of to-day 
were less mannerly than in the olden time, less 
deferential, less decorous. This may be true, and 
I tried to be sufficiently deferential to my courtly 
host, not to disagree with him. But when I look 
upon the young people of my own acquaintance, I 
recall that William went, as a matter of course, to 
put the ladies in their carriage ; Jamie took the 
hand luggage as naturally as if he were born for 
nothing else ; Frank never failed to open a door 
for them ; Arthur placed Maggie in her chair at 
table before he took his own ; Nelly and Ruth 
came to my party just as sweet and bright as if 
they did not know that the young gentlemen whom 
they had expected to meet were prevented from 
attending ; while Lucy will run herself out of 
breath for you, and Mary sits and listens with flat- 
tering intentness, and Anne and Alice and — well, 
looking over my constituency, I find the young 
people charming. 

It is true that all manners are less formal, that 
etiquette is less elaborate, now than a hundred years 
ago. Our grandfathers and grandmothers — some, 
indeed, of our fathers and mothers — did not sit at 
breakfast with their fathers and mothers, but stood 
through the meal, and never spoke except when 

spoken to. I cannot say I think we have deterio- 
rated in changing this. The pleasant, familiar, 
affectionate intercourse between parent and child 
seems to me one of the most delightful features of 
domestic life. The real, fond intimacy which exists 
between parents and children seems a far better 
and safer thing than the old fashion of keeping 
children at arm's length. 

But in casting aside forms we are, perhaps, 
somewhat in danger of losing with them some of 
that inner kindness of which form is only the 
outward expression. Without admitting that we 
are an uncivil people, insisting even that we com- 
pare favorably with other nations, I wish our boys 
and girls would resolve that the courtesy of the 
Republic shall never suffer in their hands ! 

Does this seem a trivial aim for those who are 
bending their energies to attain a high standing in 
classics and mathematics ? There is perhaps no 
single quality that does as much to make life 
smooth and comfortable — yes, and successful — as 
courtesy. Logarithms are valuable in their way, 
but there are many useful and happy people who 
are not very well versed even in the rule of three. 
A man may not know a word of Latin, or what is 
meant by "the moon's terminator," or how much 
sodium is in Arcturus, and yet be constantly diffus- 
ing pleasure. But no man can be agreeable with- 
out courtesy, and every separate act of incivility 
creates its little, or large, and ever enlarging circle 
of displeasure and unhappiness. 

One does not wish to go through life trying to be 
agreeable ; but life is a great failure if one goes 
through it disagreeable. 

Yes, little friends, believe me, you may be very 
learned, very skillful, very accomplished. I trust 
you are : I hope you will become more so. You 
may even have sound principles and good habits; 
but if people generally do not like you, it is because 
there is something wrong in yourself, and the best 
thing you can do is to study out what it is and cor- 
rect it as fast as possible. Do not for a moment 
fancy it is because you are superior to other people 
that they dislike you, for superiority never, of itself, 
made a person unlovely. It is invariably a defect 
of some sort. Generally it is a defect arising from 
training, and therefore possible to overcome. 

For instance : two girls in the country have each 
a pony phaeton. One drives her sisters, her family, 
her guests, her equals, and never thinks of going 
outside that circle. Another does the same ; but, 




more than this, she often takes the cook, the laun- 
dress, or the one woman who often is cook, laun- 
dress, house-maid, all in one. And to them the 
drive is a far greater luxury than to her own com- 
rades, who would be playing croquet or riding if 
they were not with her. Now and then she invites 
some poor neighbor, she takes some young semp- 
stress or worsted-worker to town to do her shop- 
ping, she carries the tired housewife to see her 
mother, she asks three little girls — somewhat 
crowded but rapturously happy — three miles to see 
the balloon that has alighted on the hill ; she drives 
a widowed old mother-in-Israel to a tea-drinking 
of which she would otherwise be deprived. These 
are not charities. They are courtesies, and this 
bright-faced girl is sunshine in her village home, 
and, by and by, when her box of finery is by some 
mistake left at the station, a stalwart youngster, 
unbidden, shoulders it and bears it, panting and 
perspiring, to her door-step, declaring that he 
would not do it for another person in town but 
Miss Fanny ! And perhaps he does not even say 
Miss Fanny — only Fanny. Now she could get on 
very well without the villager's admiring affection, 
and even without her box of finery ; yet the good- 
will of your neighbors is exceeding pleasant. 

Another thing Fanny excels in is the acknowl- 
edgment of courtesy, which is itself as great a 
courtesy as the performance of kindness. If she is 
invited to a lawn party or a boating picnic, whether 

she accept or not, she pays a visit to her hostess 
afterward and expresses her pleasure or her regrets ; 
and she pays it with promptness, and not with 
tardy' reluctance, as if it were a burden. If she has 
been making a week's visit away from home, she 
notifies her hostess of her safe return and her en- 
joyment of the visit, as soon as she is back again. 
If a bouquet is sent her, — too informal for a note, 
— she remembers to speak of it afterward. You 
never can remember? No; but Fanny does. That 
is why I admire her. If she has borrowed a book, 
she has an appreciative word to say when she re- 
turns it ; and if she has dropped it in the mud, she 
does not apologize and offer to replace it. She 
replaces it first and apologizes afterward, though 
she has to sacrifice a much-needed pair of four- 
button gloves to do it ! Indeed, no person has as 
little apologizing to do as Fanny, because she does 
everything promptly; and you may notice that 
what we apologize for chiefly is delay. We per- 
form our little social duties, only not in good sea- 
son, and so rob them of half their grace. It takes 
no longer to answer a letter to-day than it will take 
to-morrow. But if the letter requires an answer 
instantly, and you put it off day after day, your 
correspondent is vexed, and your tardy answer will 
never be quite a reparation. Remember that no 
explanation, no apology, is quite as good as to 
have done the thing exactly as it should be in the 
first place. 

By Emma K. Parrish. 

Jack had just heard of Christmas for the first 
time ! Ten years old, and never knew about 
Christmas before ! Jack's mother was a weary, 
overworked woman, and had no heart to tell the 
children about merry times and beautiful things in 
which they could have no share. 

His parents were very poor. When I tell you 
that they lived in a log-house you might think so, 
although some people live very comfortably in 
log-houses. But when I say that the snow drifted 
through the cracks in the roof until the chamber 
floor was fit to go sleighing on, and that it was so 
cold down-stairs that the gravy froze on the chil- 
dren's plates while they were eating breakfast, and 
that the little girls had no shoes but cloth ones 
which their mother sewed to their stockings, you 
will see that they were poor indeed. Mrs. Boyd, 

Jack's mother, generally went about her work with 
a shawl tied around her, and a comforter over her 
ears, on account of the ear-ache ; and on the cold- 
est days she kept Jack's little sisters wrapped up from 
head to foot and perched on chairs near the stove, 
so they would n't freeze. No; she did n't feel much 
like telling them about Christmas, when she did n't 
know but they would freeze to death, or, may be, 
starve, before that time. But Jack found out. He 
was going to school that winter, and one learns so 
much at school ! He came home one night brim- 
ful of the news that Christmas would be there in 
three weeks, and that Santa Claus would come 
down chimneys and say, " I wish you Merry 
Christmas ! " and then put lots of nice things in all 
the stockings. 

Mrs. Boyd heard him talking, and was glad the 

i8 7 7-l 



children were enjoying themselves, but hoped from 
her heart that they would n't expect anything, only 
to be bitterly disappointed. Most of that evening 
little Janey, the youngest girl, sat singing : 

" Wis' you Mclly Kitsmas ! 
Wis' you Mclly Kitsmas ! " 

in a quaint, little minor key, that was n't plaintive 
enough to be sad, nor merry enough to be jolly, 
but only a sweet monotony of sounds and words 
showing that she was contented, and did n't feel 
any of the dreadful aches and pains which some- 
times distressed her so. 

For a week, Jack wondered and mused within 
himself how he could get something for Christmas 
presents for his little sisters. He could n't make 
anything at home without their seeing it, nor at 
school without the teacher's seeing it, or else the 
big boys plaguing him about it. Besides, he 
would rather buy something pretty, such as they 
had never seen before — china dolls in pink dresses, 
or something of tharkind. One morning, however, 
Jack discovered some quail-tracks in the snow near 
the straw-stack, and he no longer wondered about 
ways and means, but in a moment was awake to 
the importance of this discovery. That very even- 
ing he made a wooden trap, and the next morning 
early set it near the stack, and laid an inviting train 
of wheat quite up to it, and scattered a little inside. 
He told his sisters, Mary and Janey, about the trap, 
but not about what he meant to do with the quails 
when he caught them. That afternoon Jack went 
to his trap, and to his unbounded joy found an 
imprisoned quail, frozen quite stiff. He quickly set 
the trap again, and ran to the house with his bird. 
All that evening he worked at quail-traps and made 
three more. 

It was so much warmer that their mother let the 
children stay up a little later than usual ; and Mary 
ventured to bring out her playthings and Janey's. 
These were two dolls, some bits of broken dishes, 
and a few little pine blocks. Mary watched her 
mother's face until she was sure she was "feeling 
good," before she ventured to begin a play, because 
on days when mother was very discouraged, it made 
her feel worse if the children were noisy, and so 
they would keep quiet and speak in whispers. 

"Does Santa Claus bring dolls?" asked Mary, 
suddenly, of Jack. 

" Oh yes ; dolls with pretty dresses on ; and 
little bunnits and pink shoes; and little cubberds 
to keep their clothes in, and chairs, and every- 
thing," said Jack, enthusiastically. 

" Oh, my ! " sighed Mary, as she looked dolefully 
at their poor little heap of toys. 

Reader, their dolls were cobs, with square pieces 
of calico tied around them for dresses ; and after 

hearing what Jack said, it was n't so much fun 
playing, and the little girls soon went to bed. After 
they were asleep, Mrs. Boyd said, reproachfully : 

" Jack, I wish you would n't say anything more 
about Christmas to the children." 

"Why, is it bad?" asked Jack, so astonished 
that he stopped whittling. 

"No, of course not; but you're getting their 
heads full of notions about fine things they never 
can have." 

Jack's eyes twinkled. 

" Oh, but you don't understand, mother," said 
he ; " may be Santy Claus will come this year." 

His mother shook her head. 

" You know I caught one quail to-day?" whis- 
pered Jack. 

" Well ! " said his mother. 

" Well, I 'm going to save 'em all the week, and 
Saturday take 'em to the meat-man in the village. 
I guess he '11 buy 'em. I heard that quails were 
fetching two cents apiece. And I 'm going to get 
enough money to buy the girls something nice, 
and you must make 'em hang up their stockings, 
mother, and then we '11 put the things in after they 
get asleep." 

His mother smiled quite cheerfully. " Well," 
said> she, " do the best you can." 

Their father was away that evening. He was 
generally away evenings, because most of the 
neighbors had cozier firesides than his, besides 
apples, and sometimes cider; and so he passed 
many a pleasant hour in gossip and farm-talk, while 
his own little family shivered gloomily at home. 

By Saturday morning Jack had ten quails. The 
four traps had not been as fruitful as they ought to 
have been, perhaps, but this was doing very well, 
and he trudged joyfully to town with his game 
hanging on a stick over his shoulder. The meat- 
man did indeed give two cents apiece for quails, 
and he invited Jack to bring as many more as he 
could get. 

The next Saturday was only two days before 
Christmas, and how beautiful were all the stores 
on the village street ! Even the groceries had 
Christmas toys and Christmas trees. A good many 
boys and girls stood around the store windows 
pointing out the things they most admired, and 
wondering what Santa Claus would bring them. 
Jack had fifteen quails, which brought him thirty 
cents ; so he was now the owner of half a dollar, 
which was more money than he had ever possessed 
in all his life before. But when two dolls were 
bought, and they were n't very fine dolls either, 
there were only twenty cents left. Jack did mean 
to buy something for his mother too, but he had to 
give that up, and after looking over the bright 
colored toy-books in the show-case, he selected two 




little primers, one with a pink cover and one with a 
blue one, and with a big ache in his throat, parted 
with his last ten cents for candy. How very, very 
little he was buying after all, and not one thing for 
his dear mother who had sat up till two o'clock the 
night before, mending his ragged clothes for him. 
Jack's heart was very heavy as he walked out of 

mittened hand, and said quite gently: "For the 
girls, I s'pose." 

"Yes, sir," answered Jack, beginning to feel 

" Well, run along home." 

Jack was only too happy to do so. There was n't 
much sympathy between him and his father, nor, 


the gay store with such a little package, but it sank 
still lower when his father's tall form loomed up 
suddenly before him right in front of the door. 

" What you doing here ?" he asked, sternly. 

" Been buying a few things," said Jack. 

" Let me see 'em," said his father. 

Jack tremblingly opened his package. 

" Where 'd you get the money ? " 

" With quails," said Jack, meekly. 

His father fumbled over the things with his big, 

indeed, between his father and any of the family — 
that is, there did n't seem to be ; but I guess the 
stream was frozen over, and only needed a few 
gleams of sunshine to make it bubble on, laughing 
and gurgling as in the best of hearts. 

Jack related his adventures to his mother in 
whispers, and hid the Christmas articles in the 
wash-boiler until such time as they should be 
wanted for certain small stockings. He told his 
mother how sorry he was not to have a present for 

i8 7 7-l 



her, and that little speech went a long way toward 
making her happy. That night she sat up — I 
would n't dare tell you how late — making cookies, — 
something that hadn't been in the house before 
that winter. She cut them out in all manner of 
shapes that feminine ingenuity and a case-knife 
could compass, not forgetting a bird for Janey, 
with a remarkably plump bill, and a little girl for 
Mary, with the toes turned out. She also made 
some balls of brown sugar (the Boyds never thought 
of such a luxury as white sugar), to make believe 
candy, for she did n't know Jack had bought any 

Now I am going to tell what Mr. Boyd did after 
he met Jack by the toy-store. He had gone to 
the village to have a "good time." That did n't 
mean, as it does with some men, to get tipsy ; but 
it meant he was going to Munger's grocery, where 
he could meet people, and talk and joke, and keep 

Mr. Boyd had been chopping wood for a farmer, 
and had received his pay ; but instead of going 
dutifully home and consulting with his wife about 
what he should buy, he was going to "look 
around " and see what Munger had. He was 
touched at the sight of Jack's poor little package 
of gifts, but I doubt if it would have made much 
impression on his mind if somebody had n't walked 
in to Munger's and asked in a brisk, loud voice : 
"Got any Brazil nuts, Munger?" 

The man with the brisk voice bought I don't 
know how many quarts of Brazil nuts, and walnuts, 
and filberts, and almonds, with all the loungers 
looking on, very much interested in the spectacle. 
Then he bought raisins, and candy, and oranges, 
Mr. Munger growing more smiling every minute. 

"Going to keep Christmas, I guess," said he, 
rubbing his hands together. 

" That I am ; ' Christmas comes but once a year,' 
and there are little folks up at our house who 've 
been looking for it with all their eyes for a fort- 

Then he bought a bushel of apples, and, filling 
a peck measure with them, passed them around 
among the men who sat and stood about the stove. 

" Take 'em home to your little folks if you don't 
want 'em," he said, when any one hesitated. 

There were three or four apples apiece, and Mr. 
Boyd put all his in his pockets, with a slight feeling 
of Christmas warmth beginning to thaw his heart. 

After this cheery purchaser had gone, some one 
asked : " Who is that chap ? " 

" He 's the new superintendent of the Orphant 
Asylum," answered Mr. Munger, rubbing his hands 
again ; " and a mighty nice man he is, too. Pays 
for all them things out of his own pocket. Very 
fond of children. Always likes to see 'em happy." 

There were two or three men around that stove 
who hung their heads, and Mr. Boyd was one of 
them. He hung his the lowest, perhaps because 
he had the longest neck. I don't know what the 
other men did, — something good and pleasant, I 
hope, — but Mr. Boyd thought and thought. First 
he thought how the " orphants " were going to 
have a brighter and merrier Christmas than his 
own children, who had both father and mother. 
Then he thought about sweet, patient little Janey, 
and quiet Mary, and generous Jack, who had 
taken so much pains to give pleasure to his sisters, 
and a great rush of shame filled his heart. Now, 
when Mr. Boyd was once thoroughly aroused, he 
was alive through the whole of his long frame. He 
thumped his knee with his fist, then arose and 
walked to the counter, where he dealt out rapid 
orders to the astonished grocer for nuts, candies 
and oranges ; not in such large quantities, to be 
sure, as the "orphants"' friend had done, but gen- 
erous enough for three children. And he bought 
a calico dress for his wife, a pair of shoes for each 
of the little girls, and a cap for Jack. That store 
contained everything, from grind-stones to slate- 
pencils, and from whale-oil to peppermint-drops. 
These purchases, together with some needful gro- 
ceries, took all Mr. Boyd's money, except a few 
pennies, but a Christmas don't-care feeling per- 
vaded his being, and he borrowed a bag, into 
which he stowed his goods, and set out for home. 

It was a pretty heavy bagful, but its heaviness 
only made Mr. Boyd's heart the lighter. When 
he reached home, he stood the bag up in one cor- 
ner, as if it held turnips, and said, " Don't meddle 
with that, children." Then he went out and spent 
the rest of the short day in chopping wood, which 
was very cheering to his wife. So many Sundays 
had dawned with just wood enough to cook break- 
fast, that Mrs. Boyd began to dread that day par- 
ticularly, for her husband was almost sure to go 
right away after breakfast and spend the whole day 
at the neighbors' houses, while his own family 
shivered around a half-empty stove. 

Mr. Boyd said never a word about the bag, and 
the unsuspecting household thought it contained 
corn or some other uninteresting vegetable, and 
paid little attention to it. It also stood there all 
the next day, and the children grew quite used to 
the sight of it. 

Sunday went by quietly, and, to the surprise of 
all, Mr. Boyd stayed at home, making it his espe- 
cial business to hold Janey on his lap, and keep 
the stove well filled with wood. Janey was n't feel- 
ing well that day, and this unusual attention to her 
made the family very kindly disposed toward their 
father, whom of late they had come to regard 
almost as an alien. 




Jack, whose shoes were not yet worn out, went 
to Sunday-school, and after his return the winter 
day was soon gone. Then he began to fidget, and 
was very desirous that his mother should put the 
little girls to bed ; while, strange to say, his father 
was desirous that the whole family should go to 
bed, except himself. In course of time the little 
girls were asleep in their trundle bed, with their 
little red stockings hanging behind the door. Mr. 
Boyd sat with his back to the door, so Jack slipped 
in his presents without his father's seeing him, and 
went to his cold bed upstairs. 

"Aint you going to hang up your stocking, 
mother ?" asked Mr. Boyd after Jack had gone. 

Mrs. Boyd looked startled. 

" Why, no," she answered, hesitatingly, not 
knowing whether the question was asked in irony 
or in earnest. 

" You better," said Mr. Boyd, going to the bag 
in the corner, and beginning to untie the strings. 

He laid out package after package on the floor. 
His wife knelt down by them in a maze of astonish- 
ment. Then, with a great deal of enjoyment, Mr. 
Boyd untied them one by one, showing candy, 
nuts, oranges, shoes, and all the rest, except the 
calico dress, which he kept out of sight. 

Aladdin felt very fine when he found the cave-full 
of precious stones, but I don't believe he was much 
happier than Mrs. Boyd. Her eyes were so full of 
tears that there seemed to be about eight pairs of 
shoes, ten bags, and half a dozen Mr. Boyds ; but 
she managed to lay hands on the real one, and him 
she embraced fervently. Then she brought out 
the cookies and sugar balls she had made, and 
said to her husband, in a very shame-faced way : 

"See my poor presents; I didn't know the 
children would have anything nice, and I made 
these. I guess I wont put 'em in their stockings 
though, now." 

But Mr. Boyd insisted on their going in with the 
other things, and I think they were prized by the 
children a little more dearly, if such a thing could 
be possible, than those which they called their 
" boughten " presents. 

Now, I can't begin to describe the joyful time they 
had the next morning, and particularly, the utter 
astonishment of Jack, who did n't expect a thing, 
and had n't even hung up a stocking. When that 
devoted boy recognized one of his own gray socks 
crammed full of knobs and bunches, with a beau- 
tiful plush cap on top, he was almost out of his wits. 
Likewise, Mrs. Boyd's surprise was great at the 
discovery of her new dress. The little girls were 
too happy that day to do much else but count and 
arrange and re-arrange their delightful Christinas 

Mr. Boyd killed a chicken, and Jack contributed 
four quails which he had caught since market-day, 
and the festival of Christmas was kept with much 
hilarity by the Boyd family. 

The neighbors, one by one, were surprised that 
Mr. Boyd had n't dropped in, as he usually did on 
Sundays and holidays. But Mr. Boyd was engaged 
elsewhere. And this was only the beginning of 
good days for that family, for, somehow, the Christ- 
mas feeling seemed to last through all the year with 
Mr. Boyd, and through many other years; and 
the little ball set rolling by Jack with his quail- 
traps, grew to be a mighty globe of happiness for 
the whole family. 

By A. G. W. 

One day, St. Nicholas made a complaint : 
" I think it 's quite plain why they call me a saint. 
I wonder if any one happens to see 
That nobody ever makes presents to me ; 
That I, who make presents to ever so many, 
Am the only poor fellow who never gets any ! " 

i8 7 7-J 



The Friend of Little Women and of Little Men. 

By F. B. S. 

Would the readers of St. Nicholas, who are 
all admirers of Miss Louisa Alcott, like to hear 
more than they now know about this kind friend 
af theirs, who has been giving them so much pleas- 
ure by her stories, and never writes so well as 
when she writes for boys and girls? Then, let me 
-ell you something about her own family and child- 
iood, and how she became the well-known writer 
hat she is. She not only tells you pleasant stories 
ibout " little women" and " old-fashioned girls," 
'eight cousins," and children "under the lilacs," — 
>ut she shows von how good it is to be generous 

and kind, to love others and not to be always caring 
and working for yourselves. And the way she can 
do this is by first being noble and unselfish herself. 
" Look into thine own heart and write," said a 
wise man to one who had asked how to make a 
book. And it is because Miss Alcott looks into her 
own heart and finds such kindly and beautiful wishes 
there that she has been able to write so many 
beautiful books. They tell the story of her life ; 
but they tell many other stories also. So let me 
give you a few events and scenes in her life, by 




Miss Alcott's father was the son of a farmer in 
Connecticut, and her mother was the daughter of a 
merchant in Boston. After growing up in a pretty, 
rural town, among hardy people who worked all 
day in the fields or the woods, and were not very 
rich, Mr. Alcott went down into Virginia and wan- 
dered about among the rich planters and the poor 
slaves who then lived there; selling the gentlemen 
and ladies such fine things as they would buy from 
his boxes, — for he was a traveling merchant, or ped- 
dler, — staying in their mansions sometimes, and 
sometimes in the cabins of the poor ; reading all 
the books he could find in the great houses, and 
learning all that he could in other ways. Then, he 
went back to Connecticut and became a school- 
master. So fond was he of children, and so well 
did he understand them, that his school soon became 
large and famous, and he was sent for to go and 
teach poor children in Boston. Miss May, the 
mother of Miss Alcott, was then a young lady in 
that city. She, too, was full of kind thoughts for 
children, the poor and the rich, and when she saw 
how well the young school-master understood his 
work, how much good he was seeking to do, and 
how well he loved her, why, Miss May consented 
to marry Mr. Alcott, and then they went away to 
Philadelphia together, where Mr. Alcott taught 
another school. 

Close by Philadelphia, and now a part of that 
great city, is Germantown, a quiet and lovely village 
then, which had been settled many years before by 
Germans, for whom it was named, and by Quakers, 
such as came to Philadelphia with William Penn. 
Here Louisa May Alcott was born, and she spent 
i the first two years of her life in Germantown and 
Philadelphia. Then, her father and mother went 
back to Boston, where Mr. Alcott taught a cele- 
brated school in a fine large building called the 
Temple, close by Boston Common, and about 
this school an interesting book has been written, 
which, perhaps, you will some day read. The little 
Louisa did not go to it at first, because she was not 
old enough, but her father and mother taught her 
at home the same beautiful things which the older 
children learned in the Temple school. By and by 
people began to complain that Mr. Alcott was too 
gentle with his scholars, that he read to them from 
the New Testament too much, and talked with 
them about Jesus, when he should have been mak- 
ing them say their multiplication-table. So his 
school became unpopular, and all the more so 
because he would not refuse to teach a poor colored 
boy who wanted to be his pupil. The fathers and 
mothers of the white children were not willing to 
have a colored child in the same school with their 
darlings. So they took away their children, one 
after another, until, when Louisa Alcott was be- 

tween six and seven years old, her father was left 
with only five pupils, Louisa and her two sisters 
("Jo," "Beth" and "Meg"), one white boy, and 
the colored boy whom he would not send away. 
Mr. Alcott had depended for his support on the 
money which his pupils paid him, and now he 
became poor, and gave up his school. 

There was a friend of Mr. Alcott's then living in 
Concord, not far from Boston, — a man of great 
wisdom and goodness, who had been very sad to 
see the noble Connecticut school-master so shabbily 
treated in Boston, — and he invited his friend to 
come and live in Concord. So Louisa went to that 
old country town with her father and mother when 
she was eight years old, and lived with them in a 
little cottage, where her father worked in the gar- 
den, or cut wood in the forest, while her mother 
kept the house and did the work of the cottage, 
aided by her three little girls. They were very 
poor, and worked hard ; but they never forgot 
those who needed their help, and if a poor traveler 
came to the cottage door hungry, they gave him 
what they had, and cheered him on his journey. 
By and by, when Louisa was ten years old, they 
went to another country town not far off, named 
Harvard, where some friends of Mr. Alcott had 
bought a farm, on which they were all to live 
together, in a religious community, working with 
their hands, and not eating the flesh of slaughtered 
animals, but living on vegetable food, for this prac- 
tice, they thought, made people more virtuous. 
Miss Alcott has written an amusing story about 
this, which she calls "Transcendental Wild Oats." 
When Louisa was twelve years old, and had a third 
sister ("Amy"), the family returned to Concord, 
and for three years occupied the house in which Mr. 
Hawthorne, who wrote the fine romances, afterward 
lived. There Mr. Alcott planted a fair garden, 
and built a summer-house near a brook for his 
children, where they spent many happy hours, and 
where, as I have heard, Miss Alcott first began to 
compose stories to amuse her sisters and other 
children of the neighborhood. 

When she was almost sixteen, the family returned 
to Boston, and there Miss Alcott began to teach 
boys and girls their lessons. She had not been at 
school much herself, but she had been instructed 
by her father and mother. She had seen so much 
that was generous and good done by them that 
she had learned it is far better to have a kind 
heart and to do unselfish acts than to have riches 
or learning or fine clothes. So, mothers were glad 
to send her their children to be taught, and she 
earned money in this way for her own support. 

But she did not like to teach so well as her 
father did, and thought that perhaps she could 
write stories and be paid for them, and earn more 




money in that way. So she began to write stories. 
At first nobody would pay her any money for them, 
but she kept patiently at work, making better and 
better what she wrote, until in a few years she 
could earn a good sum by her pen. Then the great 
civil war came on, and Miss Alcott, like the rest of 
the people, wished to do something for her country. 

I So she went to Washington as a nurse, and for 
some time she took care of the poor soldiers who 
came into the hospital wounded or sick, and she 
has written a little book about these soldiers which 

(■you may have read. But soon she grew ill herself 
from the labor and anxiety she had in the hospital, 
and almost died of typhoid fever ; since when she 

I has never been the robust, healthy young lady she 
was before, but was more or less an invalid while 
writing all those cheerful and entertaining books. 
And yet to that illness all her success as an author 

I might perhaps be traced. Her " Hospital Sketches," 
first published in a Boston newspaper, became very 
popular, and made her name known all over the 
North. Then she wrote other books, encouraged 
by the reception given to this, and finally, in 1S68, 

[ five years after she left the hospital in Washington, 
she published the first volume of "Little Women." 

1 From that day to this she has been constantly gain- 
ing in the public esteem, and now perhaps no lady 

j in all the land stands higher. Several hundred 
thousand volumes of her books have been sold in 
this country, and probably as many more in Eng- 
land and other European countries. 

Twenty years ago, Miss Alcott returned to Con- 
:ord with her family, who have ever since resided 

I there. It was there that most of her books were 
written, and many of her stories take that town for 

i :heir starting-point. It was in Concord that "Beth" 

: lied, and there the " Little Men " now live. Miss 
Alcott herself has been two or three years in 
'Europe since 1865, and has spent several winters 
: n Boston or New York, but her summers are 

< Usually passed in Concord, where she lives with her 
'ather and mother in a picturesque old house, 
mder a warm hill-side, with an orchard around it 

1-ind a pine-wood on the hill-top behind. Two 
,':ged trees stand in front of the house, and in the 

R ; ear is the studio of Miss May Alcott ("Amy"), 

B-pho has become an artist of renown, and had a 
minting exhibited last spring in the great exhibi- 
tion of pictures at Paris. Close by is another 

Jfc-iouse, under the same hill-side, where Mr. Haw- 
; home lived and wrote several of his famous books, 

■■ 3 nd it was along the old Lexington road in front 

of these ancient houses that the British Grenadiers 
marched and retreated on the day of the battle of 
Concord in April, 1775. Instead of soldiers march- 
ing with their plumed hats, you might have seen 
there last summer great plumes of asparagus wav- 
ing in the field ; instead of bayonets, the poles of 
grape-vines in ranks upon the hill ; while loads of 
hay, of strawberries, pears and apples went jolting 
along the highway between hill and meadow. 

The engraving shows you how Miss Alcott looks, 
— only you must recollect that it does not flatter 
her ; and if you should see her, you would like her 
face much better than the picture of it. She has 
large, dark-blue eyes, brown clustering hair, a firm 
but smiling mouth, a noble head, and a tall and 
stately presence, as becomes one who is descended 
from the Mays, Quincys and Sewalls, of Massachu- 
setts, and the Alcotts and Bronsons of Connecti- 
cut. From them she has inherited the best New 
England traits, — courage and independence with- 
out pride, a just and compassionate spirit, strongly 
domestic habits, good sense, and a warm heart. 
In her books you perceive these qualities, do you 
not ? and notice, too, the vigor of her fancy, the 
flowing humor that makes her stories now droll and 
now pathetic, a keen eye for character, and the 
most cheerful tone of mind. From the hard expe- 
riences of life she has drawn lessons of patience and 
love, and now with her, as the apostle says, 
" abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but 
the greatest of these is charity." There have been 
men, and some women too, who could practice 
well the heavenly virtue of charity toward the world 
at large, and with a general atmospheric effect, but 
could not always bring it down to earth, and train 
it in the homely, crooked paths of household care. 
But those who have seen Miss Alcott at home 
know that such is not her practice. In the last 
summer, as for years before, the citizen or the visi- 
tor who walked the Concord streets might have 
seen this admired woman doing errands for her 
father, mother, sister, or nephews, and as attentive 
to the comfort of her family as if she were only 
their housekeeper. In the sick-room she has been 
their nurse, in the excursion their guide, in the 
evening amusements their companion and enter- 
tainer. Her good fortune has been theirs, and she 
has denied herself other pleasures for the satisfac- 
tion of giving comfort and pleasure to them. 

" So did she travel on life's common way 
In cheerful godliness ; and yet her heart 
The lowliest duties on herself did lay." 





By Mary Hartwell. 

There was a boy whose name was Dunn, 

And he was one 

As full of fun 
As any boy could walk or run ! 

His cheeks were plump, his eyes were bright, 

He stepped as light 

As a camel might, 
And bounced and played from morn till night. 

And whether he was here or there, 

His parents' care — 

Unseen like air — 
Followed and held him everywhere. 


He really was their joy and pride — 

Was good beside ; 

But woe betide — 
He -would jump on the cars to ride ! 

There, hanging to a brake or step, 

Tight hold he kept, 

And onward swept, 
Yelling with all his might, " Git-tep ! " 

Dunn's father learned that he did so, 

And told him to 

Decline to go 
Where trains were running to and fro. 



As for his mother, she turned white, 

And gasped with fright 

To think Dunn might 
Come home a pancake some fine night ! 

"his father's stern command." 

But his relations often said, 

With shaking head, 

That boy was led 
To have his way if 't killed him dead ! 

'the freight-cars decked with boys did slide." 

And sure enough when school was out, 

And boys about 

The trains flocked out, 
Dunn followed too, with plunge and shout. 




He did not mean to grab a ride, 

But by his side, 

With tempting glide, 
The freight-cars decked with boys did slide ! 

Where was his father's stern command ? 

Out went his hand; 

He gained a stand — 
At least he planned to gain a stand ! 

What is it ? Crash ! His head is blind ! 

That wheel behind — 

He hears it grind ! 
And he is paralyzed in mind ! 

On cork and crutches now goes Dunn ! 

Whole boys may run — 

Grab rides for fun — 
But, as I said, this boy is Dunn ! " 


By Gustavus Frankenstein. 


MANY years ago, I was roving in a land strange 
and wonderful to me. It was a tropical country, 
and I was wandering alone among the grand scenery 
of the mountains, and the luxuriant vegetation of 
the hill-sides and valleys. 

I had with me but few implements, and these, 
such as were light and easy to carry. A hunting- 
knife, a small hatchet, a canteen and a few marching 
necessaries made up my kit. 

One day while rambling about, living on the 
bountiful supplies of fruit nature provides in that 
charming region, I came to a deep lake surrounded 
by steep hills. On the opposite side of this lake I 
could see a narrow gap or cleft, which seemed to 
lead to the higher ground. I therefore made a 
raft, — not without considerable trouble, — and pad- 
dled it across the lake. I found the gap quite 
narrow at its entrance, but it soon became wider, 
while far forward, at the end of the chasm, there 
appeared to be a series of rude steps. 

I fastened the raft to the rock, in doing which I 
had the ill luck to drop my hatchet into the deep 
water, and, notwithstanding the evil omen, made 
my way into the crevice. I passed over the rough 
bottom of the chasm until I came to the steps ; 

these I ascended. At a height of about a hundred 
feet I came to a wall of rock, the top of which I 
could just reach with the ends of my fingers. By 
a great effort, I got a good hold of the edge of the 
rock, and drew myself up. 

When I stood at last upon the upper ground, I 
saw before me the most beautiful trees and flowers 
I had yet met with. On either side the rocks 
retreated and rose steeply to the summits I had 
partially seen from the lake below. As I passed oa 
and surveyed the plateau, I found it to be a valley 
about a mile in diameter, encompassed by precipices 
more or less abrupt. With but little trouble I found 
a place of easy ascent, and soon climbed to the top 
of the rocky wall. 

The delight I now experienced surpassed every- 
thing I had ever known. Spread out before me, 
as I stood upon an eminence somewhat above the 
general level, was a vast expanse overflowing with 
vegetation and extending for miles in every direc- 
tion, whilst all round about rose the mighty domes 
and pinnacles of snow-clad mountains. I stood in 
the midst of the sublimest mountain scenery in the 
world. I could look down upon the beautiful lake, 
and up at the giant peaks, and all about me upon 
the fruitful verdure, whilst the atmosphere was 

i8 7 7-: 



charged with delightful odors, and a pleasant breeze 
tempered the sweet warm air. 

As here was a delightful climate, fruit in abun- 
dance, and scenery soul-exalting, of whose glory one 
could never grow tired, I felt rather pleased with 
the thought "Why not stay here? Why not 
remain in this beautiful place as long as circum- 
stances will permit ? " 

All nature seemed here so lovely that I resolved 
; to wander no further. 

While gazing around at all this grandeur and 
! beauty, my attention was particularly drawn to a 
group of lofty peaks which rose in the midst of this 
smiling garden. The sides of the towering emi- 
nences seemed almost perpendicular, and they were 
about three or four thousand feet high. 

I soon gave up all hope of ever reaching the top, 

but in examining the rock I found at its base a 

great cavern, so high and wide that a very large 

building might have stood in it, with plenty of 

room to spare. The sides and roof sparkled with 

crystals of all hues, and were singularly anfl 

picturesquely variegated with differently colored 

veins running through them ; and, as the cave 

opened toward the east, with a large clear space in 

i front of it, nothing could have been more splendid 

than when the morning sun shone full into the vast 

chamber and lighted it up with dazzling brilliancy. 

In that chamber I made my humble home. 

Near one of the streams that flowed over the 

precipice into the lake, grew several species of very 

: tall grasses, with great bushy heads of long silky 

fibers that adorned and protected their flowers and 

fruit. Of these fine strong threads I made a ham- 

I mock, which I suspended from a strong frame 

bound together with these tough fibers, placing 

Lit a few feet back from the mouth of the cavern. 

cThus, I had an excellent bed, and if I should need 

covering there were plenty of palm-leaves at hand 

ifor the purpose. But in that torrid climate there 

) was little need of extra protection ; the air of the 

ji'cavern was of just that delightful coolness which 

refreshes but does not chill. 

Now, imagine me waking in the morning just as 

l.he dawn tinted the rosy east, refreshed with sweet 

ilumbers and rejoicing to behold the light, rocking 

nyself gently in my pretty hammock, and hailing 

he uprising sun with a merry song, — and would 

'ou not suppose there was one happy man in this 

rreat world ? 

While the day was yet young I would take a bath 

Jin the clear, soft water of a little stream near by. 

i it Then, when all was sparkling and bright in my 

I I tumble house, I would partake with keen appetite 

1 f the precious fruits of my unlimited and self- 

\ reducing garden. 

In the neighboring streams were many kinds of 


fishes, some of which I knew to be very good eat- 
ing, and I could have caught and eaten as many 
birds as I wished ; but the fruits and nuts were so 
plentiful, and of so many different sorts, that I 
cared for, and, indeed, needed, no other kind of 

Thus, several months passed away, and I was 
not weary of this paradise. There was enough to 
occupy my mind in the examination of the structure 
and mode of growth of a vast number of species 
of plants. Their flowering, their fruitage, and 
their decay offered a boundless field for thought, 
and kept up a never-flagging interest. 

For the first four months the sun traced his 
course through the heavens to the north of me ; I 
knew, therefore, that I was almost immediately 
under the equator. For several days at the end of 
the four months, the sun rose directly in the east, 
passing through the sky in a line dividing it almost 
exactly into halves north and south. After that, 
for six months, I had the great luminary to the 
south of me. 

In all this time there was but little change in the 
weather. A short period without rain was the ex- 
ception. Otherwise, the mornings and evenings 
were invariably clear, with a refreshing rain of 
about two hours' duration in the middle of the day. 
In the afternoon the sun was, of course, away from 
my cavern, shining upon the opposite side of the 
mountain of solid rock, which rendered my abode 
delightfully cool in the greatest heat of the day. 
Toward the end of the short dry period, magnifi- 
cent thunder-showers passed over my domain. 
Nothing could be more glorious than these electrical 
displays of an equatorial sky, as I sat snug and 
safe within the rocky shelter. The heaviest shower 
could not wet me, the water without ran with a 
swift descent, from the cave, and over the precipice 
into the lake below. It was not likely that the 
lightning would take the trouble to creep in under 
the rock and there find me out. And as for the 
thunder, I was not in the least afraid of it, but 
gloried in its loud peals and distant reverberations 
among the encompassing mountains. 

It was during the violence of one of these tem- 
pests that a parrot flew into my comfortable quarters. 

" Hallo ! my fine fellow ! " said I. " Where do 
you come from, and what do you want here ? " 

It flew about the room looking for a place to 
perch, trying to find a footing against the wall, 
slipping down, and flying up again. 

I left it free to find its own roosting-place, or fly 
out of the cavern, as it liked. I had seen a few 
parrots of the same kind, outside in my garden, 
had heard them chattering and shrieking amidst 
the foliage, and had always been very much amused 
with their odd ways, and pleased with the brilliance 




and the glitter of their 
splendid plumage. But 
I never tried or cared to 
capture the gorgeous, noisy 

birds, or any other of the creatures that were always to 
be seen around me. Indeed, from the very first, the 
living things in this lovely valley appeared to be uncom- 
monly tame ; and in time no bird or other animal showed 
the least fear on my approach, regarding me no more 
than any other creature that never did them harm. Of 
course, this came of my never molesting them. But I 
never thought of getting on familiar terms with any of 
them, although scarcely a day passed that some of these 
animals did not come and eat of the fruit by the side of 
that which I was plucking. I never laid hands on them, 
but always let them go about their own business. They 
soon became accustomed to my umbrella even, for I early 


made one of these necessities of a torrid climate; and although at first when I had occasion to walk 
the sun my appearance shaded by the portable roof caused unusual chattering and commotion, I speed' 

i8 7 7-] 



took on a familiar look to them. In the same 
way I became an object of curiosity when I plucked 
a leaf and made of it a cup to drink from. But at 
length all signs of strangeness vanished, and there 
even came to be a kind of friendship between us. 

I therefore concerned myself no more about the 
parrot, thinking that, of course, as soon as the rain 
should stop, the bird would fly away. 

I had made a small table of three slabs of rock, 
where I frequently placed fruits, nuts, roots and 
the like, that I might have in case I should feel 
hungry when in my house, and yet not care to 
eat the fruit directly from the plant, which I most 
generally preferred. Of course, too, it was always 
desirable to have provisions on hand when it rained. 
The next morning, when I awoke, the rain was 
still descending, for it was just at this time that it 
rained for three or four days together. 

I always had a healthy relish for the good things 
of this world, and, as there was no rosy dawn to 
look at, my eyes immediately went in search of the 

"What!" I exclaimed; and I sat upright in 
my hammock. 
There was the parrot on the table. 
I eyed him for some time, and then I cried out : 
" You little thief ! Stealing my food, are you ? " 
The parrot sat there, but said never a word. He 
merely raised one of his claws and sleeked up the 
feathers on the back of his neck, in the way his 
family know so well. Then, raising the feathers of 
his crest, he gave utterance to a very faint shriek. 
" Get out of this, you rascal ! " I cried, and im- 
| mediately got up and went toward him with the 
purpose of putting him out. 

I approached the table very rapidly, expecting 
' that the bird would fly away. But he remained 
I motionless. I was about to lay rude hands on him, 
j but I desisted. 

, "Why do violence to the creature ? Why mar 
I the serenity of this peaceful vale ? " I said to my- 
1! self. "And why make such ado about a little 
. fruit when there is abundance on every hand ? " 
j Happening just then to glance at the fruit, it 
\ seemed to me that it had not been disturbed. 

I examined it more closely, and began to feel I 

j had done the parrot great injustice. There it lay, 

§ just as I had left it the night before ; there was no 

S evidence whatever of its having been picked at, 

and I came to the comforting conclusion that the 

handsome bird had broken no moral law. 

The parrot rose greatly in my esteem at this 
happy discovery. 

" Friend Parrot," said I, " I beg pardon for hav- 
ing so rashly jumped to the conclusion that you 
5 had been guilty of theft. I believe that you have 
touched nothing of the things which belong to me. 

Vol. V.— 10. 

Indeed, I am sure that you have not. That you 
have so scrupulously regarded the rights of prop- 
erty is to me the source of infinite gratification, 
and fills me with the highest admiration of your 
character. To show you that I am disinclined to 
let virtue go unrewarded, I accord you my permis- 
sion to stay here while I am eating my breakfast, 
and when I have finished, you too may eat some, 
if you like." 

Then, having arranged my toilet, I began to 
partake of the good things that lay on the table, 
the parrot all the while looking at me with lively 
interest. I could not help being amused at his 
significant performances. He turned his knowing 
head one way, and then another, now sidewise 
toward the fruits, and then obliquely up at me, as 
I sat enjoying the repast, enlivening his gestures 
with gentle prattle, and yet never making a single 
demonstration in the direction of my food. He 
put me in such good humor that I was impelled to 
say to him : 

"Friend Parrot, I don't mind being sociable; 
and if you are inclined to do me the favor of honor- 
ing me with your company, I most respectfully 
invite you to partake of this humble collation." 
And, taking up one of the choicest nuts in the 
collection, I handed it to him forthwith. 

He took it promptly, and proceeded to crack and 
munch it in regular parrot fashion. 

"You must excuse me," I resumed, "that my 
viands are not of the choicest cooking, and that I 
have no servants to wait upon my highly esteemed 
guest, and that there are no silver knives and forks 
and spoons to eat with in the latest civilized style, 
but I have rid myself of all those things, and am 
glad of it." 

The parrot nodded his head approvingly, as much 
as to say, " Right, quite right." 

The poor bird was very hungry, and I let him 
eat his fill. 

Breakfast over, my guest flew upon my shoulder 
and was disposed to be affectionate. He delicately 
pecked at my lips, drew his bill gently across my 
cheeks, and pulled my hair with his claws. 

" Come, come ! friend Parrot, none of your 
soft billing and cooing. Leave that to women and 

So I gave my friend politely to understand that 
I did not care for such pretty endearments ; and, 
soon comprehending the force of my objection, he 
very sensibly desisted from bestowing further atten- 
tion upon me, and thenceforth kept his handsome 
person reasonably aloof. 

I entertained my friend two days, during which 
I gave him much valuable advice, and, which was 
more to the purpose and perhaps better appreciated, 
plenty to eat. 




On the morning of the third day, the sun rose in 
all his beauty again, and I fully expected the bird 
would fly away. He was in no hurry to go, how- 
ever. I went out, wandered about, and toward 
noon returned home. Still the parrot was there. 
So it was the next day, and the next. I did not 
want to resort to force and drive him away. 

Finally I said to him one day : 

" Friend Parrot ; since I see you are in no hurry 
to leave my humble home, and that it evidently 
grieves you to lose the pleasure of my society, I 
shall not eject you forcibly from the premises. 
Stay, therefore, as long as it shall please you. I 
will share with you food, and shelter from the sun 
and rain. And whenever you grow weary of this 
my society, tired of this plain habitation, or dis- 
gusted generally with civilization, and wish to 
return to the freedom of savage life, you are at 
liberty to go. 'T is a large door, always open, out 
of which you can fly ; and when you are gone I 
shall shed no tears over your departure." 

The bird seemed really to comprehend the drift 
of my discourse, and from that time forward we 
lived upon the most intimate terms, which, how- 
ever, never passed the bounds of mutual respect. 

Now, if we were to live in such close ties of 
friendship, it was necessary that my friend should 
have a name, and that he, too, should be able to 
address me by mine. The title, " Friend Parrot," 
was rather too formal, and his screeching at me in 
some unmeaning way every time he wanted me 
could not for long be tolerated. 

So, " Mr. Parrot," said I, " you are Mr. Parrot 
no longer. Your name is ' Pippity.' " 

He soon learned his new name, and then said I : 

" Pippity ! my name is ' Frank.' " 

It was incredible how rapidly he learned mine. 

"Further, Pippity," I continued, "you must 
learn the names of the things round about us." 

Instruction began at once. For several days he 
had to be told the names of things many times 
before he was able to repeat them correctly ; but 
after that, and apparently all of a sudden, he seemed 
to have caught a bright idea and to thoroughly 
understand my method of teaching. 

From that time on, when the name of a thing 
was made plain to him, he seemed to grasp it 
immediately and never forgot it. This expedited 
matters wonderfully, for I liked to talk to him and 
observe his efforts to repeat what I said, so there 
was ample conversation, though somewhat one- 
sided, going on in our ancient dwelling. I mar- 
veled at the parrot's extraordinary power ; but 
what astonished me above all was his wonderful 
memory, and his unlimited capacity for taking in 
new ideas. Sometimes I would ask him, after an 
interval of weeks, some name of a thing I had 

taught him, and the answer was invariably correct. 
On such occasions I would say to him : 

" Pippity, what 's that?" 
■ He would tell me immediately ; and I laughed 
outright when, one day, as we were strolling through 
the forest, I stumbled over a stone, and the parrot, 
perching on it, pecked it with his bill, and then, 
looking up at me askance, asked : 

"What's that?" 

That was a phrase I had unwittingly taught him. 
And now I began more than ever to perceive his 
extraordinary genius. 

Thenceforth it was "What's that?" and 
"What's that?" and actually the fellow wanted to 
learn more quickly than I could teach. 

Once, after this intelligent bird had been with 
me for some months, we were sitting quietly in our 
domicile, shaded from the afternoon sun by our 
lofty rock-built palace, enjoying the beauties of j 
creation, when all at once he broke out in his clear, 
melodious voice : 

" Tell me something new !" 

I looked at him in amazement. I had never 
taught him to say that ; but undoubtedly he must 
have heard me say, at some time or other, "Pip- 
pity, now I will tell you something new." Yet how 
the bird had managed to turn the phrase gram- 
matically to himself puzzled me not a little. 

However, I soon began to teach him something 
else that was new, for I had been thinking that it 
was time that he should learn the names of the:- 
plants, — at least of the most interesting and useful. 
So it was not long before Pippity had a fair acquaint- 
ance with botany. 

Nearly a year had now rolled round, when one 
day Pippity was missing. What could have hap- 
pened to him ? Had he grown tired of my society ? 
Did he begin to think that, after all, savage free- 
dom was to be preferred to dull, systematic civiliza- 
tion ? Had he come to the conclusion that much 
learning is, at best, but vanity? Did he want tc 
go babbling again in chaotic gibberish rather thar 
to talk smoothly by rote ? 

Two days passed, in which to drive away any 
natural feeling of loneliness at the parrot's absence 
I set down notes as concisely as possible of wha 
had occurred to me so far. For this purpose 
used the point of my knife and thin slabs of mica i 
wishing to save the small stock of memorandun 
paper in my note-book and journals as much as 
could. At other times I had used bark and simila . 
things to write on, but the mica was more durable 
and more easily stowed away. It was my intention 
to make a still more condensed series of notes o 
the paper I had by me, whenever I should feel lik 
undertaking the task. The juice of berries woul 
serve for ink, and a feather or light reed woul 




-nake as good a - ' "* ~' T *-' '■"'•~ 

>en as I should "v:":-i~r V'." '•---. ■ ■ ,- '['' 

jrant. This plan I "'• 

. arried out afterward. -S " 

On the third day Pippity returned, and, as he came fly- 
ag into the palace, " Pippity, Pippity!" I cried, " I thought 
ou were never coming back. Have you been to see your old 
riends?" He hung his head demurely, and said nothing. 
Although I had told Pippity, when he had first sought my 
ospitality, that I would shed no tears over his departure, if at any 
me he might see fit to leave me, I must confess that I was very 
lad when he came back. His society was agreeable. He was a 




good listener, and he was by no means an idler, 
as far as that kind of honorable work is con- 
cerned which consists in keeping body and soul 
together. For example, strolling through our fer- 
tile garden, if I should happen to see some fine 
fruit high on a tree, Pippity would fly up to it at 
my bidding, and, cutting its stem with his bill, 
would quickly bring it to the ground. 

" Pippity," I would say, "do you see that extra 
fine bunch of bananas up there ? Now, do you go 
up and cut the stalk, while I stand below and catch 
the luscious treasure on this soft bed of leaves." 

And, before I would be done speaking, Pippity 
would already be pretty well advanced with his 
work. For getting nuts, and such fruit as it was 
desirable to take carefully from plants at great 
heights, his services were invaluable. 

It is a remarkable fact that, although we had 
such an abundance of tropical fruits, as well as a 
large proportion of temperate productions, on our 
domain, the cocoa-nut was not one of them. I 
remembered that, in coming up from the lake, I 
had seen large numbers of cocoa-nut trees growing 
on the small flat at which I first arrived about nine 
hundred feet below the level of our palace plateau. 

It would be an agreeable diversion, I thought, to 
go down there and get some of those nuts, and 
it undoubtedly would be quite a treat to Pippity to 
share them with me. 

'• So," said I, '" Pippity, I am going down this 
narrow gorge to the lake ; cocoa-nuts grow there, 

and I mean that you and I shall have some. Keep 

house while I am gone. I shall start with the first 

peep of dawn, while it is cool, and be back some 

■ time in the afternoon." 

I had made some baskets, in which we hung up 
the fruit we gathered. One of these I took, and 
went down the declivity. I soon filled the basket 
with good cocoa-nuts, saw plenty of monkeys, and 
was much amused at their lively antics, and atjj 
their astonishment at seeing one so much like them, 
and yet so different. I then returned — not, how- 
ever, without being obliged to throw away quite ; 
number of the nuts before reaching the top, in.j 
order to lessen the burden, which was light enough 
at first, but which seemed to grow heavier and 
heavier as I proceeded. 

As soon as Pippity saw me, he cried out : 

"Cocoa-nuts! Cocoa-nuts!" 

We relished them so much that I went dowr 
after them quite often, always leaving Pippity al 
home to mind the house. 

On one occasion, while I was gathering these 
nuts, I was startled by a loud shrieking not far off 
and, looking in the direction of the noise, I sav 
that there was a great commotion among thi 
monkeys — about a hundred of them squealing anc 
yelling and gesticulating at once. It was on thij 
ground, where the monkey-crowd swayed to and 
fro like any civilized mob. I ran up to see what th 
fracas was about, but not without some misgiving 
as to the risk of meddling in other people's business 

{To be continued.) 

By Harlan H. Ballard. 

It has been said, you know, that all the millions 
of pins which are lost every year are picked up by 
fairies and hammered out on elfin anvils into notes 
of music. There are some who say that this state- 
ment must be received with caution, although they 
admit that the half and quarter notes do bear a 
very singular resemblance to pins. 

I confess that I shared the doubts of this latter 
class of persons until a few evenings since ; for 
although I knew well enough that pins were bright 
and sharp enough in their way, I never had been 
able to discover one of a musical turn of mind. 

But having on a certain evening heard a choir of 
pins singing "Yankee Doodle" till you would have 

thought that their heads must ache forever after, 
hereby withdraw all my objections, and express n 
decided opinion that the above-named theory 1 
the future life of pins is fully as accurate as ai 
other with which I am acquainted. 

The chorus of pins who were singing " Yank 
Doodle " were standing at the time on a piece 
pine-board, and were evidently very much stuck u 

One of their number, however, when asked 
they were not rather too self-important, bent 1 
head quickly downward, and replied that 
could n't see the point, which was exceeding 
brassy for a pin. 

They looked for all the world as if they werel 




line of music which, impatient of being forever 
kept under key and behind bars, had revolted 
under the leadership of an intrepid staff-officer, 


and marched right out of Sister Mary's instruction- 

Indeed, from a remark which the staff-officer let 
fall, to the effect that if they did not all see sharp 
they would soon be flat again, nothing else would 
be natural than to accept that supposition as the 

Pins they were of all papers and polish. 
They were not ranged according to height, as 
good soldiers should be, nor did they all stand 
erect, but each seemed bent on having his own 

Their heads varied greatly from an even line, 
and on the whole they looked far more like the 
notes of music which they had been, than like the 
orderly row of singing-pins which they aspired to 
be. They had a scaly appearance. 

My small brother had assumed the management 
of this curious chorus, and I was much amused at 
the manner in which he drilled them. For he 
coolly picked up the splendid staff-officer by his 
head and poked the first bass with his point, as if 
to say, " Time — sing ! " Whereupon that pin set 

: up a deep, twanging growl, to express his disap- 
probation of that method of drill. 

In like manner did my brother treat each of the 
pins in succession. Then it appeared that each 
liad a different voice, and was capable of pro- 

• ducing but one sound. Moreover, they had been 
so arranged that, as they uttered each one his 

: peculiar note, the sounds followed each other in 
such a manner as to produce the lively and 

: patriotic air of " Yankee Doodle." This was very- 
wonderful and pleasing. 

"Well, Johnny," said I, as soon as I could stop 
laughing, "that's pretty good. Where did you 
pick that up ? " 

"Oh, a feller told me," said he. " 'T aint nothing 
to do. All there is of it is to get a tune in your 
head, and then drive a pin down in a board, and 
keep a-driving, and trying it till 
it sounds like the first note in the 
tune. Then stick up another for 
the second note, and so on." 

" How can you raise a pin to 
a higher note?" said I. 

" Hammer her down farther," 
said he. 

" And to make a lower note ?" 
I asked. 

" Pull her up a little," said he. 
" How do you manage the 
time ?" 

" Oh, when you want to go 
slow, you put the pins a good ways 
apart ; and when you want to go 
fast, you plant 'em thicker." 
The next day I found that this ridiculous brother 
of mine had set up a pin-organ in a circular form. 
He had made one of those little whirligigs which 
spin around when they are held over the register or 
by a stove-pipe, and then had connected it by a 
string with a wheel. This wheel, as it turned, set 
an upright shaft in motion, and from this there 
projected a stick armed at the end with a pin. 
This was arranged, as is shown in the cut, so that 
when it revolved, the pin in the stick played upon 
the pins in the circle, and rattled off the " Mulligan 
Guards " at a tremendous pace. 

Johnny says that he invented the circular ar- 
rangement, and that all the boys he knows are 


making these pin-organs for themselves, which I 
am not at all surprised to hear. 




By J. D. 

The porpoise is a long, sleek fish without scales, 
black on the back, and white and gray beneath. 
He is from four to ten feet in length, and his 
sociability and good-nature are proverbial among 
seamen of all nations. 

A porpoise is rarely seen alone, and if he by 
chance wanders from his friends, he acts in a very 
bewildered and foolish manner, and will gladly 

approved fashion. Their favorite antic is to dive t 
few feet and then come to the surface, showing 
their backs in a half circle, and then, making ; 
sound like a long-drawn sigh, disappear again 
Sailors call them "sea-clowns," and never allov 
them to be harmed. 

They are met with in schools of from two or threi 
to thousands. They often get embayed' in tin 


follow a steamer at full speed rather than be left 
alone. He is a very inquisitive fish, and is always 
thrusting his funny-looking snout into every nook 
that promises diversion or sport. 

A very familiar spectacle at sea is a school of 
porpoises — or " porpusses," as the sailors call them. 
As soon as a school catches sight of a ship, they 
immediately make a frantic rush for it, as if their 
life depended upon giving it a speedy welcome. 
After diving under the vessel a few times to inspect 
it and try its speed, they take their station under 
the bows, just ahead, and proceed to cut up every 
antic that a fish is capable of. They jump, turn 
over, play "leap-frog" and "tag" in the most 

inlets and shallow rivers which their curiosity lea' 
them to investigate. A porpoise once came in 
the Harlem River and wandered up and down f 
a week seeking a way out. One day he sudden 
made his appearance amid some bathers and sc; 
tered them by his gambols. 

When they change their feeding-places, the s. 
is covered for acres with a tumultuous multitude 
these "sea-clowns," all swimming along in the san 

When one of these droves is going against t: 
wind (or to windward), their plungings throw i 
little jets of water, which, being multiplied by the 
sands of fish, present a very curious appearance. 

i8 7 7-J 



By Clara W. Raymond. 

Oh, the wind came howling at our house-door, 

Like a maddened fiend set free ; 
He pushed and struggled with gasp and roar, 

For an angry wind was he ! 

He dashed snow-wreaths at our window-panes, 
The casements rattled and creaked ; 

Then up he climbed to the chimney tops, 
And down through the flues he shrieked. 

He found Jack's sled by the garden fence, 
And tumbled it down in his spite ; 

And heaped the snow till he covered it up, 
And hid it from poor Jack's sight. 

He tore down the lattice and broke the house 

Ned built for the birds last week ; 
And he bent the branches and bowed the trees, 

Then rushed off fresh wrath to wreak. 

And oh ! how he frightened poor little Nell, 

And made her tremble and weep, 
Till mother came up and soothed the wee maid, 

And lulled her with songs to sleep ! 

Her tiny hand nestled, content and still, 
In her mother's, so soft and warm ; 

While with magical power of low, sweet tones 
The mother-love hushed the storm. 


By P. F. 

It was a spelling bee. The magician had never 
had one, but he thought it was better late than 
never, and so he sent word around that he would 
have his bee just outside of the town, on the green 
grass. Everybody came, because they had to. 
When the magician said they must do a thing, 
there was no help for it. So they all marched in a 
long procession, the magician at the head with his 
dictionary open at the ''bee" page. Every now 
and then he turned around and waved his wand, 
so as to keep the musicians in good time. The 
cock-of-the-walk led the band and he played on his 
own bill, which had holes in it, like a flute. The 
rabbit beat the drum, and the pig blew the horn, 
while old Mother Clink, who was mustered in to 
make up the quartette, was obliged to play on the 
coffee-mill, because she understood no other instru- 

The king came, with his three body-guards 
marching in front. The first guard was a wild 
savage with bare legs, and a gnat stung him on the 
knee, which made the second guard laugh so much 
that the third one who carried the candles had a 
chance to eat a penny-dip, without any person see- 
ing him. The king rode in his chariot, drawn by 

two wasps. He was a very warm gentleman, and 
not only carried a parasol to keep off the sun, but 
the head ninny-hammer squirted water on the 
small of his back to keep him cool. 

The court tailor rode on a goat, and he carried his 
shears and the goose he ironed with. He balanced 
himself pretty well until a bird sat on his queue, 
and that bent him over backward so that he nearly 
fell off. 

The queen also came ; she was bigger than the 
king and had to have cats to draw her chariot. 
The cats fought a good deal, but the driver, who 
was a mouse, managed to get them along. The 
footman was also a mouse, and the queen had two 
pet mice that sat at her feet or played with her 
scepter. After the queen came the chief jumping 
jack, who did funny tricks with bottles as he danced 

Then came the ladies of the court. They sat in 
nautilus shells, which were each borne by two 
bearers. The first shell went along nicely, but the 
men who carried the second were lazy and the lady 
beat them with a hair-brush. As for the bearers 
of the last shell, they had a fight and took their 
poles to beat each other, leaving their shell, with 




the lady in it, on the ground. She did n't mind, 
for she thought that if they went off and left her, 
she would n't have to do any spelling. So she 

smallest chicken tried to crow in tune with his 
father, but nobody could hear whether he crowed 
right or wrong — and what is more, nobody cared. 

stayed in her shell and smiled very contentedly. The monkey did n't walk, but was carried in a 

The town bell-man walked along in grand state bucket by a mountaineer, and he blew peas through 

ringing his bell, and the cock-who-could-n't-walk a tube at the palace steward who was having hii 

rode on a wheelbarrow and crowed by note. The 
old ram wheeled the barrow, in which was also a 
basket containing the hen and chickens. The 

hair combed by the court barber. It was so lat] 
that the barber had to hurry, and so he used a rak t 
instead of a comb. The steward did not like this, 

i8 77 .] 



but there was so little time that nothing else could dog barked at him, an old woman ran after him 

be done, for the procession was already moving, with a broom, a wooden-legged soldier pursued him 

There was a lion who lived at the Town-hall, with a sword, a rat gave chase to him, while a rab- 

He was very wise, and his business was to bite 

- criminals. When he heard about the bee he 

thought he would have to go, but the moment he 

bit took down his shot-gun and cried out, fiercely, 
that he would blow the top of that old lion's head 
off, if he could only get a fair crack at him. 

"showed himself in the street all the relatives of the 
Criminals got after him. The wasps stung him, a 
'?ame-cock pecked at him, a beetle nipped him, a 

Two of the liveliest animals in the town were the 
donkey and the old cow. They went to the bee, 
but they danced along as if they did n't care at all 




whether they spelled cat with a c or a k. They 
each had two partners. The donkey had two regu- 
lar danseuses, but the cow had to content herself 
with the court librarian and the apothecary. 

Out in the green grass where the company as- 
sembled there were a lot of grasshoppers and little 
gnats. The grasshoppers said to each other, " We 
can't put letters together to make words, so let us 
dance for a spell," which they did, — all but o,ne 
poor young creature who had no partner, and who 
sat sorrowfully on one side, while the others skipped 
gayly about. 

As soon as the people and the chickens and 
donkeys and wasps and cows and all the others were 
seated, side by side, in two long rows, the magician 
gave out the first word. It was " Roe-dough- 
mon-taide " — at least that was the way he pro- 
nounced it. The king and the queen were at the 
heads of the two lines, and it was their duty to 

begin, — first the king, and then the queen, if he 

But neither of them had ever heard of the word, 
and so they didn't try. Then one of the wasps 
tried, and afterward a ram, a rabbit, and the head 
ninny-hammer; but they made sad work of it. 
Then each one of the company made an effort and 
did his, her or its very best, but it was of no use ; 
they could not spell the word. 

Uprose then the little chicken that had stood on 
his mother's back and tried to crow in tune with his 
father, and he cried out : " Give it up ! " 

" Wrong ! " said the magician. " That 's not it. 
You are all now under the influence of a powerful 
spell. Here you will remain until some one can 
correctly answer my question." 

They are all there yet. How long would you, 
my reader, have to sit on the grass before you could 
spell that word? 




By J. C. Purdy. 


" Papa ! " 

" Well, dear ! " 

"Wont to-morrow be Kissmuss?" 

" Why, no, darling ! We had Christmas-day 
long ago. Don't you remember ? " 

" Yes ; but you said we 'd have another Kiss- 
muss in a year, and then I 'd have such a pitty tree. 
I'm sure it's a year. It is a year, papa; and it 
takes so awful long to wait for some time — it's jess 
a noosance. I fink ole Kriss was drefful mean not 
to let me have a tree only cos we 'd got poor. 
Was n't we ever poor before, papa ? Don't he give 
trees to any poor little girls ? I do want a tree — 
sech a pitty one, like I used to have ! " 

It was little Scrubby said all that. She was only 
four years old, but she could say what she had to 
say in her own fashion. When she saw her father's 
sorrowful face, she thought she had said rather too 
much this time ; so she gave him a hug and put 
up her mouth for a kiss. 

"I dess I can wait, papa," she said. " But he 
will bring me a tree next Kissmuss, wont he ? Jess 
like I used to have ? And then wont that be nice ! 
There 's my baby waked up. She '11 be cryin' in a 
minute, I s'pose." 

Old Lucy, the dearest baby of all in this little 
girl's large family, was taken up and quieted ; and 
then something happened that was really wonder- 
ful. Scrubby, with her poor torn and tangled doll 
in her arms, sat very still for at least five minutes. 
The little maid was thinking all that time. She 
did not think very straight, perhaps, but she thought 
over a great deal of ground, and settled a good 
many things in that busy little head of hers ; then 
she sang them all over to good old Lucy. 

" Hush, my dear ! " she sang. " Don't stay 

long, for it beats my heart when the winds blow ; 

and come back soon to your own chickabiddy, and 

' then Kissmuss '11 be here. S'umber on, baby dear. 

Kriss is coming with such a booful tree ; then wont 

, you be s'prised ? She went to the hatter's to get 

: him a coffin, and when she come back he was fixin' 

my Kissmuss-tree ! " 

The little singer grew so enthusiastic when she 
came to the tree that she could not wait to sing 
any more ; so she just danced Lucy up and down 
and chattered to her as fast as her tongue could go. 

" It '11 be for me and for you, Lucy, and for all 

the babies, and then wont you be glad ! And for 

. mamma too, and for papa, cos we 's all good little 

chillen, if we is poor. Yes, indeed, Ole Kriss is 
coming with his reindeer. And he '11 bring me a 
horse with pink shoes on ; and you '11 have a piano 
— a really piano, ye know ; and mamma, she '11 
have two little glass s'ippers, and — and " 

Little Scrubby stopped chattering just there, and 
laid her head down on poor old Lucy's kind bosom. 

" Oh dear ! " she sighed, " I do wish ole Kriss 'd 
come with that pitty tree ! " 

The kitten curled up on the hearth, and the little 
broken dog that lay tipped over in the corner, and 
good old Lucy, and the three dolls tucked up in 
mamma's basket, all heard the wish of the poor 
little disappointed child. 


Everybody has noticed that the kittens and the 
dogs take a great many naps in the day-time, and 
that the dolls and toy-animals let the children do 
the most of the playing. That is because the pets 
and the toys are tired out and sleepy after their 
doings the night before, when the children were 
asleep and the grown people out of the way. They 
have rare sprees all by themselves, but just as soon 
as any person comes about, the fun stops, — the cat 
and the dog are sound asleep, the dolls drop down 
anywhere still as a wood-pile, and the rocking-horse 
don't even switch the ten hairs left in his tail. 

As for talking, though, they might chatter all the 
time and nobody be the wiser. People hear them, 
but not a soul knows what it is. Mamma sticks 
paper into the key-hole to keep out the wind that 
whistles so, papa takes medicine for the cold that 
makes such a ringing in his head, and Bridget 
sets a trap to catch the mouse that " squales and 
scrabbles about so, a body can't slape at all, 
'most ; " and all the while it is the dolls and pets 
laughing and talking among themselves. 

The bird in the cage and the bird out-of-doors 
know what it is. Very tame squirrels and rabbits 
understand it ; and the poor little late chicken, 
which was brought into the kitchen for fear of 
freezing, soon spoke the language like a native. 

Scrubby understood all that any of them said, 
and they all understood her and liked her im- 
mensely. Even the plants in the window would 
nod and wink and shake out their leaves whenever 
she came about. 

After little Scrubby and everybody else in the 
house had gone to bed that night, Minx, the kitten, 
came out from behind the broom, and prancing 


scrubby's beautiful tree. 


up to the little pasteboard and wool dog that lay for all that, she was still full of lively French am, 
tipped over in the comer, pawed him about until Lyd was the last of the lot Poor thing ! She 
he was as full of fun as herself. Then she jumped had been such a lovely wax blonde : but now the 


upon the table and clawed g 
the three dolls out of 
mamma's work - basket, 
sending them all sprawl- 
ing on the floor. 

They were a sad-look- 
ing lot of babies, anyway. 
There was Peg, knit out 

of blue, red and yellow worsted, and with black 
beads for eyes. She was a good deal raveled out, 
but there was plenty of fun in her yet, after all. 

Then there was Francaise. She was a French 
girl, who had been brought from Paris for Scrubby 
before that bad time when papa " got poor." She 
had been very elegant, but now her laces were 
torn, her hair would never curl again, one arm 
swung loose, and her head wobbled badly ; but, 

wax had all melted off 

her cheeks, she was as 

bald as a squash, one 

eye had been knocked 

out, and, worst of all, 

she had not a stitch of 

clothes on. Scrubby had 

brought her to this plight ; but, for all that, 

loved the very ground Scrubby tumbled over ; 

i8 7 7-l 



so did all the rest of them, for that matter, never 
caring how much she abused them in her happy, 
loving way. 

Very soon high fun was going on in that room, 
and it is a wonder the neighbors did not come in to 
see what the uproar meant ; but nobody heard it. 

Yes, Ned, the bird, heard it, took his head out 
from under his wing, and laughed at the fun until 
he almost tumbled out of his cage. The lively 
dog, Spot, heard it out in his shed, too, and whined 
at the door until Jumping Jack contrived to undo 
the latch and let him in. The little late chicken 
heard it also, hopped out of his snug basket, and 
was soon enjoying himself as much as if they were 
all chickens and it was a warm spring day. 

Lucy heard it, too ; but Scrubby had taken Lucy 
to bed with her, and had her hugged up so tightly 
that the kind old baby could n't get away, and had 
to lie there and listen and wait. 

They were having a good time in that room. 
The rocking-horse had been hitched to the little 
wagon, and Jumping Jack was driver; Miss Fran- 
caise had climbed into the wagon, and was sitting 
there as gracefully as she could, trying to hold her 
head steady ; she had the pasteboard dog for a lap- 
dog, while Peg and Lyd sprawled on the wagon- 
bottom, and Minx stood upon the horse's back like 
a circus-rider. 

And so they went tearing around the room in 
fine style, Spot racing with them and wagging his 
tail till it looked like a fan. Ned fairly shouted in 
his cage, and the chicken jumped on a chair and 
tried his best to crow. 

After a while, Spot grabbed up a piece of paper 
from one corner, and began to worry it. The fine 
Francaise saw that and tumbled out of the wagon 
in a minute, as if she were only a very quick- 
tempered little girl. She snatched the paper away 
from Spot and snapped out: " You sha' n't spoil 
that ! It 's Scrubby's letter ! " 

The horse had stopped now, Jumping Jack 
jerked himself up to the astonished dog, and said, 
very severely : " Spot, aint you ashamed to worry 
anything that belongs to our Scrubby ? I '11 put 
you out if there 's any more of it." 

"It's too bad, so it is," said Peg. 

Lyd began to cry with her one eye, while Ned 
stopped laughing and went to scolding ; the chicken 
put his claw before his face, as if ashamed of such 
a dog, and even the horse shook his head. 

Poor Spot was under a cloud. 

" I did n't know it was anything Scrubby cared 
for, and I don't believe it is, either," he snapped. 

" I saw Scrubby write it," said Minx, " and she 
stuck the pencil in my ear when she 'd finished. " 

" She was sitting on us when she wrote it," said 
Peg and Lyd together. 

" Yes, and she held me on her lap and read it 
to me when it was clone," put in Frangaise. 

" Of course it 's her letter," spoke up the rocking- 
horse. " Don't you remember, Fran, she hitched 
it to my bridle and told you to ride right off and 
give it to old Kriss when he came around ? " 

" You 're a nice crowd ! " growled Spot. " Every 
one of you knew all about this, and left it kicking 
around on the floor ! You are a nice crowd ! I '11 
take charge of it myself now, and see that old 
Kriss gets it. He can't read it, of course. Nobody 
could read that ; but it shows how much yott all 
think of Scrubby." 

Spot had the best of it now ; but the French lady 
spoke up in a way that put the others in good 
spirits right off, and made honest Spot feel as if he 
had been sat down upon. 

" Perhaps some people can read, if you cant," 
she said, "/can read that letter for you, and for 
old Kriss too, if he wants me to." 

She could not read a word, but she opened out 
the scribbled sheet in fine style, and just repeated 
what she had heard Scrubby say. And this is 
what Scrubby tried to put in the letter : 

Ole Kriss : I want a tree, please, ole Kriss, right away. And 
lots of pitty things. And glass s'ippers for mamma. And moss 
under it, and animals, jess like I used to have. And a pink coat for 
papa, and not wait for some time, cos that 's a noosance. 

It was very queer how they all acted when they 
heard the letter. There was not another cross 
word said — or a word of any kind for that matter. 
Not one of them even looked at the others, and it 
was not until poor Spot gave a big snuff that each 
of them found out that the rest were crying. 

"Well, I know what / ';« going to do," said 
Minx, at last. " I 'm just going to get that child a 
tree ; that's what I 'm going to do." 

" And I 'm going to help you," Francaise said, as 
heartily as if she were not a fine lady at all. " She 
ruined my dress, and tore my lace, and put my hair 
in such a state as never was ; but I don't care. 
She wants a tree, and she's going to have it." 

" You ought to have heard how she talked to her 
papa and old Luce to-night," sobbed the one-eyed 
baby. " It was enough to break a body's heart." 

" We did hear her," they all snuffled. 

Then they wiped their eyes, and a minute after- 
ward, with much chatter, they began to make 
preparations for getting the tree. 

All but Spot. Scrubby had used him the worst 
of all, she loved him so. She had pulled every hair 
on him loose, and had twisted his tail until it hung 
crooked ; and yet Spot could not speak or do any- 
thing for crying over little Scrubby's grief. 

Pretty soon, Lucy, who had listened to as much 
of this talk as she could, heard the whole party go 




out of the back door and start off somewhere. She 
was in a great state of mind about it. Not for any- 
thing in the world would she waken Scrubby ; but 
oh ! how she longed to tumble down-stairs and 
rush off after the rest ! 

What a party it was that did go out of that back 
door ! And in what style they went ! Ned, the 
canary, was the only one left behind ; and those 
who could n't walk, rode. For they had hitched 
the horse to Scrubby's little battered sled, and 
made a grand sleighing party of it. 

Jumping Jack drove, of course. The French 
lady had the seat of honor on the sled, and much 
trouble she had to keep it, for there was nothing to 
hold on by, and her head was so loose that it nearly 
threw her over. 

Lyd had wrapped a dish-towel about her, and 
felt very comfortable and well-dressed ; while Peg 
had come just as she was, and they both rolled 
about on the sled in a very dangerous fashion. 

The late chicken held on with his claws to the 
curl of the runner, and flapped his wings and 
squawked every time the sled plunged a little in 
the snow. Minx rode horseback as before, while 
Spot went afoot, jumping and barking, and snap- 
ping up a mouthful of snow every few minutes. 

But not one of them knew where they were 
going, or what they were going to do. They 
meant to get Scrubby a tree somehow, and that 
was all they knew about it. 

At last, Peg said (Peg was a very sensible baby, 
if she was raveled out) : 

" What are we going to do, anyhow ? " 

" Why, we 're going to get a tree for Scrubby," 
they all answered. 

" Well, what kind of a tree ? — and where ? " 

That was a poser. None of them had thought 
so far as that. At last, Minx said : 

" Why, any kind — somewhere." 

" There are plenty of trees in France," said 

" Then that 's the place for us to go," said Jump- 
ing Jack ; and at once they raced off to the end of 
the garden, on their way to France. 

" This aint the way, after all," Minx said, when 
they got to the fence. " The world comes to an 
end just over there. I got up on the fence one 
day, and there was nothing beyond but a great, 
deep hole." 

" There 's no use going off this other way," Spot 
put in, "for there's nothing over there but a big 
lot of water with a mill standing by it. I was over 
there one day." 

" Then that is our way," said the French lady, 
decisively. " That is the ocean. I know they 
brought me across the ocean, and I was awfully 
sick all the way." 

That last rather discouraged them, for nobody 
wanted to get awfully sick if there was any other 
way to find Scrubby's tree ; so they concluded not 
to go to France. 

"Well, let's go somewhere, for I'm getting 
cold," peeped the chicken ; and then there was a 
great discussion. At last, Spot said : 

"We are a stupid lot! There's that sparrow 
comes about the door every day — he could tell us 
all about trees in a minute if we could find him." 

Minx knew where the sparrow kept himself, for 
she always watched him with an eye to business. 

" But," she said, "some of the rest of you will 
have to talk to him, for he '11 never let me come 
near him." 

So then the chicken called to the sparrow, and 
the sparrow answered. The matter was explained 
to him, and the bird fluttered down among them 
as much excited as anybody. 

" It 's for little Scrubby, eh ? " he said. " What 
in the world does she want a tree for ? I know. 
It 's because she is half bird herself — bless her 
heart ! — and she likes trees just like any other bird. 
And don't she come to the door every morning and 
give me crumbs and talk to me so friendly? Of 
course, I '11 help find a tree for her." 

But he had not found one yet, and so the chicken 
told him. 

" I don't know," he said. " Suppose I call Mrs. 
Squirrel. She can tell." And off he flew, and had 
the gray squirrel there in a minute, cold as it was. 

Then they had to tell the story over again to 
Mrs. Squirrel and to Mr. Rabbit, who had also 
hopped along to see what the fuss was all about. 

"Scrubby's got to have a tree, and that's all - 
about it," chattered Mrs. Squirrel, as she whisked 
about in a state of great- excitement. " I did n't 
know old Kriss could be so mean as that. Call 
him a saint ! And all because Scrubby 's poor ! 
Humph ! Don't seem to me she is so very poor. 
Did n"t I give her those eyes she has ? And did n't 
the robin give her his own throat ? And has n't 
she a sunbeam inside, that shines all through ? 
And did n't Miss June roll up all the flowers she, 
had, and a dozen birds beside, and wrap the whole 
bundle up in Scrubby's brown skin ? I don't call 
that being so very poor, do you ? Anyhow, she is 
not so poor but that she could make me feel jolly 
every time she came out-doors last summer to run 
after me and chatter to me." 

The rabbit had been standing all this time with 
one cold foot wrapped up in his ear. He unfolded 
his ear now, and wiped his eyes with it. 

"She almost cried," he said. "Just think of 
one of my little bunnies wanting anything she 
could n't get, and crying about it ! It just breaks 
my heart." 

,8 77 .J 



" Tree ! " chirped the chicken. 
" Yes," said Mrs. Squirrel, "why don't you go 
and get a tree for Scrubby ? What do you all 
stand here for, chattering and doing nothing ? I 'd 

'. give her mine, only that great beech could n't be 

- got into the house." 

"We wanted your advice," the sparrow suggested. 

i "Advice! You don't need any advice. Why 

: don't you give her your own tree ? That little 
Norway spruce is just the thing. Come along, and 

iidon't be so selfish ! " 

" I 'm not selfish ; but really Norway is not fit, 

(and, besides, I don't believe he '11 go." 

ii " Nonsense ! He 's a beautiful tree, only there 
is n't much green on him ; and of course he '11 go, 

j for we '11 make him go," answered the very decided 

) Mrs. Squirrel. 

i So they all whisked away to the sparrow's roost- 
ing-place. Norway was not in good health, that 

£was evident. He was very thin, and his temper 

/was in bad condition too; for when the sparrow 
; asked him if he would please step out and come 

.with, them, he answered : 

i "Not much I wont ! It's bad enough standing 
;here in the ground, poorly as I am, without com- 
ing out there in the snow ; and I '11 not do it for 

" Oh dear ! Scrubby will be so disappointed ! 
What will she do ? " they all cried out at once. 
L " What 's that about Scrubby ? What has 
;5crubby got to do with my catching my death- 
t :old, anyhow ? " asked Norway. 
a And then they told him the whole story. He 
lardly waited for them to get through before he 
jroke out talking very fast. 

b " Why did n't you say so ? How should I know 

-t was for Scrubby ? Of course, I '11 go ! I 'd do 

anything for her. She did enough forme, I should 

1 hink," — and, as quickly as he could, he pulled his 

( ne foot out of the ground and hopped into the beside the horse. Then he went on talking. 

1 ' You see if it had n't been for Scrubby I would n't 

ifie alive at all. She heard somebody say that I 

heeded to have the dirt loosened about my roots, 

nd to have plenty of water. So she dug around 

re at a great rate, and watered me until I was 

hnost drowned. She cut off a good many of my 

voots, and once she threw hot water all down this 

I ,,ide of me ; but she did n't know. I 'm not much 

1 f a tree, I confess ; but Scrubby did what she 

: ould, and if she wants me she shall have me." 

. "Come on, then," said the chicken, "for I'm 

) cold my bill chatters." And they went. 

It was a very funny procession they made going 

:ack to the house, — the horse prancing along with 

. ie sled, the three doils taking a sleigh-ride in 

leir queer way, Spot racing about everywhere 

with Minx on his back, and the tree hopping along 
after the sled as fast as his one foot could go. The 
chicken rode back on one of Norway's branches, 
and fluttered and squawked more than ever. 

When they started, they looked about and called 
for the sparrow, Mrs. Squirrel, and Mr. Rabbit, 
but they had all disappeared ; so the rest went 
back without them, shouting, laughing and singing. 


It was a brave sight they saw when Jumping 
Jack opened the door to let the party in. 

Luce had got away from her little bedfellow at 
last without waking her. She knew that the others 
had gone to get a tree for little Scrub, and she 
knew that a tree was just no tree at all without 
plenty of things to hang upon it. So she went to 
work, and by the time Jack opened the door she 
had a great deal done. It was astonishing how 
many things she had found to put on that tree ; but 
then she had been rummaging among Scrubby's 
old playthings up in the garret. 

There were old dolls, little and big ; there were 
old toys of all sorts ; there were pretty little pict- 
ures, and quantities of flowers made of bright 
paper. A great many of the things Scrubby had 
thrown aside so long ago they would be new to her 
now ; and some of them mamma had put away 
very carefully, so that the little girl should not 
altogether spoil them. 

Lucy had found them all and had brought them 
down-stairs ; and now she had them in a heap on 
the floor, trying to keep them in order, for they 
were all very lively at being brought out again. 

"Well, Luce, you have done it \ " Jack said. 

"Of course, I have," answered Lucy. "Do 
keep that horse away, Jack, and not let him run 
over these babies." 

" Oh dear ! " squawked the chicken, and fluttered 
under the table, for these new-comers were all 
strangers to him. 

Spot tried not to bark his astonishment and de- 
light ; Minx began to claw all the old dolls and 
toys about ; the French lady walked away into a 
corner and waited to be introduced, while Lyd and 
Peg shook hands with their old cronies until it 
seemed as though they never would stop. 

The tree had hopped into the room and stood 
there, not knowing what to do with himself. Lucy 
did not see him at 'first, being so busy with the 
rest ; but as soon as she did see him, she gave him 
such a hug as nearly pulled him over. 

"Oh, you dear old Norway! Did you come? 
You 're so good, and I 'm so glad ! Come up to 
the fire and get warm. Here, Jack, and Lyd, and 
Francaise, help me get this big foot-stool into the 
corner. It 's getting awful late." 





Lucy flew about in a ragged kind of way until 
she had all the rest flying about too, doing an 
amount of work nobody would have believed pos- 
sible. They were all glad enough to do the work, 
but they needed just such a driving, thoughtful old 
body as Lucy to show them what to do and keep 
them at it. 

The big foot-stool was put where Lucy wanted it, 
and Norway warmed his foot and hopped upon the 

old dolls, broken toys, and torn flowers looked 
when upon the tree. There were so many, anc 
they had been arranged so nicely, that they reall) 
did make a splendid show. 

" But, oh dear ! " Lucy sighed, when it was al 
done. " It 's not your fault I know, Norway, anc 
you are just as good as you can be ; but if you onl; 
were not quite so thin, and were just a little bi 
greener ! And then we 've no moss to put unde 



stool, pushing himself as far back in the corner as 
he could get, to make sure that he would not fall. 

Then Lucy climbed upon a chair in front of 
him, ready for business. She took Francaise up on 
the chair beside her to help arrange the things, for 
the French girl had excellent taste, and nobody 
could deny it. Lyd and Peg, and Minx and Spot, 
and even the chicken, brought the things to go on 
the tree, and faster, too, than they could possibly be 
used, while Ned shouted all manner of directions. 

Poor Norway fairly bowed his head under the 
weight of all the things that were hung upon him. 
And it was astonishing how pretty those battered 

you. But we have n't any nice little animals to p 
on the moss, if we had it." 

Just then, Jumping Jack heard a queer kind 
noise outside, and opened the door to see wh'J 
it was. In whisked Mrs. Squirrel ; the sparrc 
hopped in close beside her, and Mr. Rabbit jumpc 
along right after them. 

" How are you getting on ? " asked the gn 
lady. " I brought this along because I thought 
might come handy. We laid in a great deal mo 
than we needed for our nest last fall, and we cou 
just as well spare it as not." 

It was a big bundle of beautiful green moss s 



J 53 

had brought, enough to spread all around under 
the tree and make a fine carpet. 

"Oh, you dear, good old thing!" said Luce. 
" That is just exactly what we wanted. Here, 
Lyd ! Peg! Help me spread this down." 

" Chick," said the sparrow, " will you please 
take charge of this ? " 

And there was a great long vine of shining green 
ivy which the sparrow had dragged in with him from 
some place in the woods. Lucy was so delighted 
that she fairly clapped her brown leather hands. 

" Quick, Francaise ! " she cried. " Take this and 
twist it around the tree. Just the thing to hide poor 
old Norway's bare places. Oh, it 's just lovely ! " 

All this time Mr. Rabbit had been holding his 
ears very straight up, and now he shook a couple 
of button-balls and some acorn-cups out of one, 
and a lot of mountain-ash berries out of the other. 

" Do to hang around on the tree. ■ Look kind of 
odd and nice," he said. 

" Well, I should think so ! " Luce answered. 
" I never did see such good creatures as you are ; 
and we all thought you had gone home to bed." 

Speaking of bed made the chicken gape a little, 
and they all remembered how late it was. They 
never stopped chattering and laughing for a min- 
ute ; but they went to work harder than ever, and 
soon had all the moss spread down, the ivy twined 
over the tree, and the button-balls, acorn-cups, and 
berries hung up where they would show best. 

Then Mr. Rabbit got up on the stool and nearly 
covered himself with moss ; Mrs. Squirrel got under 
the tree and stood up on her hind-feet, with an 
acorn in her paws ; Minx curled herself up in the 
funniest way on the moss ; the sparrow flew up into 
the tree and began pecking at the mountain-ash 
berries ; Francaise and Lyd and Peg all sat down 
as well as they could near the squirrel and the 
rabbit ; Jumping Jack mounted the horse and rode 
around beside the tree, to stand guard ; Spot stood 
up on his hind-legs just in front of the stool, with 
Scrubby's letter in his mouth, and the chicken 
hopped up on Spot's head. 

Then good old Lucy started to go upstairs after 
Scrubby, but she got no further than the door. 
Scrubby had waked up and missed her dear old 
doll, so she had come down to look for her, and 
there she stood now, just inside the door, with her 
bright brown eyes wide open. 

A minute before there had been only the scraggy 
little tree she had taken care of, the battered old 
toys, the torn dolls and the little pets she had 
played with and loved so well, the bird and the 
wild creatures she had fed and chattered to, and a 
little bit of ivy and green moss. But just as soon 
as she looked at them all, there was the most beau- 
tiful Christmas-tree that ever was seen. 

It was very curious; but it was the light that did 
it — the light of her own happy eyes. It dies out 
of eves that are older. 


A Christmas Colloquy. 

Mr. and Mrs. Burton. Mr. and Mrs. Remsen. 

Tommy, aged seven. Harry, ) Twins, aged 

May, aged five. Sadie, \ six. 

"Lucy, aged eighteen. Patrick, a hired man. 

Scene : The Burtons' parlor on Christmas Eve. 

Mr. B. Tommy ! stop making such a noise. 

Tonany. Oh, I can't have any fun at all ! 

Mr. B. Why, yes you can. Look at all your 
rtoys scattered about. Play something quietly. 

Tommy. Nobody to play with. 

Mr. B. Play with your little sister. 

Tommy. She 's sitting in mamma's lap; besides, 
■she's a girl. Oh, papa {running to his father] ! 1 
tvish the Remsens would come ! I want to play 
with Harry. 

Mr. B. [hastily}. Never mind, never mind! 
The Remsens will not come. 

VOL. V.— ii. 

May. Why wont the Remsens come ? 

Tommy. Oh, dear me, there is n't anything nice 
to do ! 

Mr. B. Tommy, stop your whining. Don't say 
another word. May, don't speak of the Remsens 
again. They are not coming, and that 's an end 
of it. 

[Enter Lucy.] 

Lucy. What ! tears on Christmas Eve, little 
May! And Tommy pouting! Oh, that '11 never 
do ! Come, cheer up ! You '11 have plenty of fun 
soon with Harry and Sadie. — It must be nearly 
time to send for the Remsens, father. 

Mr. B. [vexed]. Don't speak of them again. 
They 're not coming, and I don't want them. Why 
will every one keep talking about them ? 
[Enter Patrick.] 

Mrs. B. [aside to Lucy]. Mr. Remsen and your 




father have quarreled about a piece of land ; so 
the Remsens are not to come this year. 

Mr. B. Well, Patrick, what is it ? 

Patrick. Shure, the horse is ready, sir. 

Mr. B. Horse ready ? What for ; 

Pa/rick. To be goin' for the Rimsins, shure ! 

Mr. B. [a ugi ily] . We are not going for the 
Remsens ! What do you mean by acting without 
orders ? Take the horse out at once ! 

Patrick. Widout orthers, is it ? An' it 's mesilf, 
thin, that hitched up the crather every Christmas 
"Ave I 've lived wid yous for to go for them same. 

Mr. B. Don't answer, sir ; do as I bid you. 

Patrick [aside] . It 's plain the masther 's rin his 
nose forninst somethin' harrud. [Exit.] 

Mrs. B. \going to Mr. B. and putting her arm 
about him, lie sitting]. Dear John, send for the 
Remsens, please. See how everything conspires 
to ask it of you, from the prattle of the children to 
old Patrick himself. It is Christmas Eve, dear ! 
How can we teach the dear chicks to be kind to 
each other unless we set the example? Send for 
our old friends, John. They 've been with us every 
Christmas Eve these many years. You '11 settle your 
affair with Mr. Remsen all the better, afterward. 

Mr. B. Why, Mary, would you have me crawl at 
the feet of a man who tries to overreach me ? 

Mrs. B. No, John ! But stand on your own 
feet, and say : " Come, neighbor, let us do some- 
thing better and wiser than hate each other." 

Mr. B. I '11 not do it. He has 

Lucy. Hark ! What 's that ? 
[Music outside — the sound of a harp, or of a con- 
. cealed piano played very softly. Then, to its 
accompaniment, is sung the following carol ':] 

" Be merry all, be merry all ! 
With holly dress the festive hall, 
Prepare the song, the feast, the ball, 
To welcome Merry Christmas. 

"And, oh ! remembci, gentles gay, 
To you who bask in fortune's ray 
The year is all a holiday; — 

The poor have only Christmas. 

When you the costly banquet deal 
To guests who never famine feel, 
Oh spare one morsel from your meal 
To cheer the poor at Christmas. 

" So shall each note of mirth appear 
More sweet to heaven than praise or prayer, 
And angels, in their carols there, 

Shall bless the poor at Christmas." 

Lucy. Oh, what a beautiful carol ! I '11 call in 
the minstrel. 

Mrs. B. Yes, run Lucy ! [Exit LUCY.] 

Mr. B. Set a chair by the fire, Tommy. 
[Enter LUCY, with old minstrel carrying harp.] 

Minstrel. Good even, gentle folks, and a merry 
Christmas to you all ! 

Mrs. B. Come sit by the fire. Tommy placec 
the chair for you. It is cold outside. 

Minstrel. Thank you kindly, ma'am. So Tom- 
my set the chair for the old man ? Where 
Master Tommy ? Ah, there 's my little man 
Come here, Tommy. That 's right. So, up, or 
my knee. Why, that 's a bright face now ! Anc 
it ought to be bright, too; for this is Christmas 
Eve, merry Christmas Eve, the children's happj 
time. Tommy, I remember when I was as young 
as you are. I had a little sister. 

Tommy. I have a little sister, too. 

Minstrel. Oh, you have a little sister, eh 
Where is she, then ? 

Tommy [pointing]. Over there, in the corner. 

Minstrel. Bless my old eyes, so she is ! Rur 
and bring her, Tommy. 

[TOMMY runs, and returns leading and coax 
ing May.] 

Minstrel [setting one on each knee] . Now, goot 
folks, if you '11 let me, I '11 tell these little people ; 
story of Jesus when he was a little boy. It 
called "The Holy Well." 

[ They group themselves about the minstrel. 

Early one bright May morning, Jesus, then 
little boy often or twelve years, awoke, and at oner; 
remembered that it was a holiday. His eyesl 
bright with the morning light, sparkled yet mor 
brightly at the thought. There would be no schoo 1 
no work. All the people would keep the feast 
He knew, too, that on that day, the boys of his ag 
would assemble betimes to play together at Thi 
Holy Well. So, brimful of joyful expectation, 
ran to ask his mother's leave to go and join in thl 
merry games. Soon' he was on his way, and hi 
quickened his steps when he came in sight of thl 
troops of happy children running hither and thithc 
in their sports. Drawing nearer, he stood still 
little while, watching the games with pleased an 
eager eyes. Then he called out : " Little childrei 
shall I play with you, and will you play with me ? 
Now, these boys and girls were the children of ricl 
parents, and lived* in much finer houses than tt 
one Jesus had for a home. They had handsoir 
clothes, too, and everything of the best. So the 
looked on the plainly dressed stranger, the son (■ 
a poor carpenter, and bade him begone, saying 
" We will not play with you, or with any such 
you ! " What a rebuff was that ! The poor, sei! 
sitive little lad had not expected it, and his tend' 
feelings were hurt. His eyes filled with tears; ar' 
running home as fast as he could, he laid his he; 
in his mother's lap, and sobbed out to her tl 
whole story. Then Mary was angry with the i j 
natured children, and told her son to go back ar 
destroy them all by his word ; for she believed th 
her beautiful boy could do such things. But, surel 


i8 7 7-l 



if he could have harbored that thought, he would 
not have been beautiful ; and so, when his mother 
spoke, her words drew away his thoughts from him- 
self to the children who had grieved him. He 
knew that they had never really known him, and 
so could not have understood what they were doing. 
Therefore he said to his mother that he must be 
helpful and gentle to people, and not destroy them. 
And that was the way with him to the very end. 
For when, years after, the people (perhaps among 
them some of those same children grown-up) were 
putting him to death on a cross, he bethought 
him again that they did not really know him, and 
prayed: ''Father, forgive them; they know not 
what they do." And, even before then, he had told 
all people to love their enemies, and forgive and 
be good to one another. If he had not done all 
that, Christmas would not be so happy a time for us. 
Mrs. B. [approaching her husband and laying 
her hand on his shoulder~\. John, is not he right ? 
Mr. B. [who has been lost in though/, starting 
and abruptly walking aside]. He is right! So 
' are they all. [Turning about.] Dear wife, Lucy, 
, Tommy, May, you shall be happy ! We'll have the 
Remsens ! I say, we '11 have our dear old friends. 

J Patrick shall harness the horse at once, and 

, T The Minstrel suddenly strips off his disguise and 
■ reveals himself as Mr. Remsen.] What! Remsen ! 
Is that you ? 

Mr. B. No need to harness up, old friend. Here 
I am ! Ah ! I knew how it would be. 

With Spirit. 

Tommy [capering about]. Hi! Hi! Ho! Isn't 
it great, May ? I shall have Harry to play with. 

May [clapping]. And I shall have Sadie. 

Lucy. Oh, what a delightful surprise ! Oh, Mr. 
Remsen, I am glad, so very glad, that you have 
come. We will send for the others at once. 

Mr. B. Why, they 're all here, too. You may 
be sure we all came together. [ Opening the door. ) 
Come ! come in ! It 's all right, as we knew it 
would be. 

[Enter Mrs. Remsen and her children, Harry 
and Sadie, who immediately run to Tommy 
and May.] 

Mrs. B. [to Mrs. B.] Welcome, welcome, dear 
friend ! This is kind. 

Lucy. Now Christmas Eve is what it ought to be. 

Mrs. B. Oh, Mrs. Burton, I am happy again 
now. I was afraid that Christmas would not bring 
love and joy for us this year. We could not help 
coming. Old memories were too strong for us. 

Mr. B. to Mr. B. Ah ! neighbor, it 's a sad 
thing to interrupt that " peace on earth " of which 
the angels sung. There 's my hand; take it kindly. 

Mr. B. And there 's mine, with all my heart. 
We '11 not let a bit of land divide old friends. 

Mr. B. Aye, aye ! We 'd better divide the land. 

Mr. B. It seems easy to settle now. But no 
more of that to-night. Come, let us sing our 
Christmas carol. It will be sweeter than ever. 
Take your harp, friend, and turn minstrel again 
for the occasion. 

-0 i 1 — L 5 

-0- -0- -0- -0- ' 

9 j- 



With wond'ring- awe, The wise men saw The star in Heaven springing, And with de-light In 




N ,S 



-N-- N- 


poco rail. 

f f -#■ V • u 

peaceful night, They heard the angels singing, Ho - san - na, Ho-saivna, 




• 7~& 


-V — </— V- 

■0- -#•-*- ■#- J— — 


to His name ! 


By light of star, 

They traveled far 
To seek the lowly manger; 

A humble bed 

Wherein was laid 
The wondrous little stranger. 

Hosanna, hosanna, 

Hosanna to His name! 

And still is found, 
The world around. 

The old and hallowed story ; 
And still is sung 
In every tongue 

The angels' song of glory: 
Hosanna, hosanna, 
Hosanna to His name! 


-0 — 



The heavenly star 

Its ray afar 
On every land is throwing 

And shall not cease 

Till holy peace. 
In all the earth is glowing. 

Hosanna, hosanna, 

Hosanna to His name! 






A Merry Christmas to you, my darlings! 
It 's cold weather — too cold for any but a Scribner 
Jack-in-the-Pulpit to be out-of-doors — but our hearts 
are green, and there 's a fine bracing air. 

Christmas will not be here when you first get the 
December magazine, I know, but St. Nicholas 
likes to get a good start. He has Dutch blood 
in his veins, and he knows well that in Holland 
St. Nicholas' Day comes on the 6th of December. 

So, just think of the dear Dutch youngsters, and 
what a happy holiday they keep on the 6th, — for 
that is their season of gift-giving, — and when the 
25th comes to you, with its holy, beautiful light, 
and its home joys, you '11 be all the more ready to 
give it welcome. 

Now for 


Here is a copy of a printed scrap thrown to me 
by a high wind the other day. It is n't of very 
much use to a Jack-in-the-Pulpit ; so I hand it over 
to you, my chicks. It strikes me that it has the 
gist of some of Deacon Green's remarks, and that 
somehow it does n't come under the head of what 
is called " pernicious reading" : 

" Good Advice for the Young. — Avoid all boastings and exag- 
gerations, backbiting, abuse, and evil speaking; slang phrases and 
oaths in conversation; depreciate no man's qualities, and accept 
hospitalities of the humblest kind in a hearty and appreciative man- 
ner; avoid giving offense, and if you do offend, have the manliness 
to apologize; infuse as much elegance as possible into your thoughts 
as well as your actions; and, as you avoid vulgarities, you will 
increase the enjoyment of life, and grow in the respect of others. " 


Here is a story which I heard a girl tell her little 
sister the other day, but I don't believe the girl told 
it altogether right. Can any of my youngsters 
straighten it out? This is the story : 

King Alfred, after his fatal defeat at Marston 
Moor, having taken refuge in an oak-tree, was so 

absorbed in watching a spider which had tried to 
weave its web eleven times and succeeded on the 
twelfth, that he allowed the cakes to burn ; where- 
upon, the herdsman's wife, rushing in, exclaimed: 

" Oh, Diamond ! Diamond ! what mischief hast 
thou done ? " 

To which he meekly replied: "I cannot tell 
lie; I did it with my little hatchet." 

" Take away," cried she, " that bauble ! " 

" I have done my duty, thank heaven ! " s: 
he, but he never smiled again. 


Dear Jack-in-the-Pi-lpit : I should like to tell the Little School- 
ma'am about tmr little schoolma'am. 

She is a voting lady of about twenty-one years, and looks too dell 
cate to govern such a school. But she does it ; and though as fonci 
of fun as any of us at the right time, yet in school she insists on at- 
tention to business, and will not tolerate idleness or disobedience 
She is very kind and gentle, but firm ar.d decided, and we all know 
that she means what she says, and must be obeyed implicitly. Sh< 
says she wants us to love and trust her as a friend, and we do. Ou 
of school she seems as young as we do, for she i> full of fun and like; 
us to have a good time. She tries to make school pleasant to us. anc 
a while ago she put a box on her desk, and said, when we had any 
questions to ask, or complaints to make, we might write them on ; 
slip of paper and put it in that box, which was locked and had a holt 
in the top. Sometimes she answers the questions publicly, ant 
sometimes she writes them and puts them in the "letter-box." Thr 
scholar who has the best record for a month keeps the key the nex 
month, and once a week opens the box and distributes the contents 
It is quite an honor to be "postmistress," but no one can have it twi 
months at a time. She lets us make suggestions if we think of an - 
improvements in the school, and sometimes adopts them. Anothe 
of her plans is to allow five minutes at the end of each hour when w, 
may whisper, but not talk out loud. If we wish to speak to any on< 
we can leave our seat and walk to them, if they are not near to us 
But any one who whispers, or communicates in any way at any othe 
time, forfeits this chance. I forgot to say that we put notes to ead 
other in the letter-box. We do like our little schoolma'am s 
much ! — Yours truly, Allie Bertram. 


It is not so very long since I heard a little gir 
say that she " wished sue could only be as idle a 
a bird." 

Now, this was not a very lazy sort of wish, if sh 
had but known it. There are very few little girls 
or boys, — or grown-ups either, for the matter 
that, — who are as industrious as the birds. Ho\I 
many people would be willing to begin their dail 
labors as early as the birds begin theirs — at hal: 
past three o'clock in the morning — and keep 
toiling away until after eight in the evening ? 

Think of it, my youngsters. — almost eightee 
hours of constant work ! 

And the birds do it willingly, too ; for it is 
labor of love to bring dainty bits to their hungr 
little ones and keep the home-nest snug and warn 

One pair of birds that had been patiently watche 
from the first to the last of their long, long da; 
made no less than four hundred and seventy-fn 
trips, of about one hundred and fifty yards eaci 
in search of food for their darling chicks ! 

As idle as a bird, indeed ! — with all that hun 
ing, and fetching, and carrying, and feeding to dc 


TALKING of birds, would you ever have thou^l 
it ? The lovely and brilliarft Bird of Paradise, I ' ; 
told, is " own first cousin " to the — Crows. Ar 
the Crows are not one bit ashamed to own the rel 
tionship ! Very condescending of them, is n't it 






Ocala, Marion County, Fla., 1877. 

Dear Jack: I was on the St. John's River at work with my 
father about three years ago. There were real wild-orange groves 
there, and the trees bore sour and bitter-sweet fruit. I will now tell 
you what I was doing on that river. I was pressing out the juice of 
the sour oranges and boiling it, for making citric acid. We, used a 
cider press for pressing out the juice, and a copper cauldron for boil- 
ing it. We shipped the acid to Philadelphia, and I do not know 
what was done with it next. 

These groves were inhabited by wild beasts, such as opossums, 
wild cats, raccoons, deer, and, occasionally, bears and panthers. 

The groves were situated on high mounds, made ages and ages 
ago, by people of an ancient race known as "mound-builders," 
There were always shells on the mounds, winch in some instances 
appeared to be made entirely of shells Some mounds were fifty feet, 
or more, above the surrounding country, and from two hundred to 
four hundred yards in length. 

Now, I dare say, you would like me to say of what kind these 
shells were; but. as I never could find out for myself, I cannot tell 
you what kind they were. They are unlike any that I have seen 
elsewhere, and I think they do not belong to any living species of to- 
day. Farewell, dear Jack ! — Yours truly, Trohc. 



Dear Jack: Ever so many millions of letters are dropped into 
the London Post-Office every year, but some are so badly addressed 
,, that they never get out again. When a direction is so ill-written that 
the sorters can't make it out, the letter is taken to a man they call 
[ the "Blind Clerk," and he generally deciphers it. Why they call 
- him "blind " I don't know, for few addresses are beyond the power 
j of his sharp eyes to make out. Here is one that did not give him 
, much trouble; but can any of your young folks tell what it means? 

il Sarvingle 

Num for te Quins prade 
Lun on. 

I'll send you the "blind" man's solution next month. Mean- 
time, here is a puzzle for your merry crowd. You shall have an 
j answer in that same postscript; but I should like to have the Little 
' Schoolma'am and the rest work it out for themselves: 

" I am constrained to plant a grove 
To satisfy the girl I love; 
And in this grove I must compose 
Just nineteen trees in nine straight rows, 
And in each row five trees must place, 
Or never more behold her face. 

Ye sons of art, lend me your aid 
To please this most exacting maid." 

This puzzle is so old that it probably 
your young folks. — Yours truly, 

ill be new to thousands of 
M. B. T. 


YES. It 's so ; though I must say I felt inclined 
tto laugh the first time I heard one boy tell another 
to put salt on a bird's tail by way of catching it. 
Now, however, word comes, all the way from Cali- 
fornia, that there is a lake there, called "Deep 
iiSpring Lake," whose waters are very salt ; and that 
during certain conditions of the weather the water- 
"fowl of the lake become so encrusted with salt that 
:hey cannot fly, and the Indians wade into the 
■vater and simply catch the birds with their hands. 
■ The coating taken from one duck weighed six 
xmnds, — enough to have drowned it, even if its 
'yes and bill had not been so covered as to blind 
'ind choke it. When the weather is favorable for 
he formation of this crust upon the birds, the In- 
lians do their best with fires and noise to keep 
hem away from the few fresh-water streams where 
he poor things would be safe from the salt. Be- 
ides this, the savages imitate the cries and calls of 
he birds, so as to entice them to the dangerous 
>art of the lake. 
It seems to me that men must be very mean as 

well as very hungry to take advantage of the birds 
in that way. However, iL circumstances alter cases," 
as the school-boy said when he had been " punished 
for his good " by mistake. 


Bridgeport, Conn. 

Dear Little Schoolma'am; One would think that the word 
" kerosene" could not be a very difficult one for the average inhabit- 
ant to write correctly ; but it is. From the New York Independent 
I learn that the following versions of the word have actually been 
received by the Portland Kerosene Oil Company in its correspond- 
ence : 

Caracine, carecane, caroziene. carocine, cursene, carozyne, cori- 
seen, carosyne, caricien, carsine, caresene, carozine, carocene, 
carosean, carycene, caresien, caraseen, caroseene, crusen, carecene, 
carizoein, keriscene, karosin, kerocine, keressean, keriseene, kerasene, 
kerosen, kereseen, kerison, kerriseen, kerricene, keroseen, kerosine, 
karosina, keresene, kerrsein, keroscene, kerose, kerasseen, kereson, 
kerocene, kerozene, kerrisene, kerryseen, kerissien, kersien, keros- 
sein, keriscene. 

Now is n't that astonishing ? — Yours sincerely, Mary N. G. 


What do you think this is ? It is neither more 
nor less than the word Ci supercilious," which is 
derived from sufiercilium, the Latin for " eyebrow/ 7 
as I heard the Little Schoolma'am tell the children 
not long ago. 

When she had said this, one of the little girls, in 
a rather scornful, superior way, said, " I don't see 
any sense in that." Whereat the Little School- 
ma'am and two or three of the bigger girls laughed, 
for the little girl had raised her eyebrow in a most 
" supercilious" expression, giving the best possible 
proof of the appropriateness of the word. For, 
certainly, it is hard for one's face to express a super- 
cilious feeling without raising the eyebrow, or at 
least changing that part of the countenance which 
is over the eyelid. 


HERE 'S one more derivation, while we are about 
it. I heard the other day that the bees, with the 
aid of Latin, have given us a beautiful word : 
" Sincere " — which is made of the words sine-ce7'a, 
meaning " honey without wax." 

Remember this, my chicks, and let your kind 
words and good actions be truly sincere, — pure 
honey, sine cera. 


Dear Jack : My grandfather knew a gentleman who was a very 
intimate friend of the author of " Home, Sweet Home " — John How- 
ard Paynu. Mr. Payne told this gentleman, Mr. C, how he came to 
write the song. He said that a play or operetta called "The Maid 
of Milan," that he had adapted from the French, was about to be 
played in London. In this play was a very pretty scene for which he 
had an air in his mind. He had to conjure up some words to suit the 
tune, and so he wrote the verses of "Home, Sweet Home." He 
also said that the very next day after the song had been brought out 
at the theater it was all over London. Everybody was singing it. 
Grandfather says that Mr. Payne got really very tired of hearing 
about this song, and at length said he supposed he would hereafter 
be known only as the author oi" Home, Sweet Home." Mr. Robert 
S. Chilton wrote this beautiful verse about Mr. Payne's death: 

Sure, when thy gentle spirit fled 

To realms beyond the azure dome, 
With arms outstretched God's angels said: 
" Welcome to heaven's ' Home, Sweet Home ! ' 

I believe this verse was insciibed on Mr. Payr.e's tomb-stone in 
Tunis, Africa; but I am not sure. Can any one tell me? — Yours 
truly, Katie T. M. 




How many toes has the tootsy foot? 

One, two, three, four, five ! 
Shut them all up in the little red sock, 
Snugger than bees in a hive. 

How many fingers has little wee hand ? 

Four, and a little wee thumb ! 
Shut them up under the bed-clothes tight, 

For fear Jack Frost should come. 

How many eyes has the Baby Bo ? 

Two, so shining and bright ! 
Shut them up under the little white lids, 

And kiss them a loving Lrood-nigdit. 



About the middle of the summer, little Arthur, who lived in the country, 
went to see his grandmother, whose house was three or lour miles away 
from Arthur's home. He staid there a week, and when he came home 
and had been welcomed by all the family, his father took him out on the 
front piazza and said to him : 

" Now, Arthur, if you are not tired, how would you like to take a ride ? " 
"Oh ! I ni not tired," said Arthur. " I 'd like a ride ever so much. 
Will you take me ? " 

"No," said his father. "I meant for you to take a ride by yourself." 

" But I can't drive," said little Arthur. 

" I know that," his father said, with a smile, " but I think we can 
manage it. Here, Joseph ! " he called out to the hired man, " hurry and 
bring Arthur's horse." 

" Oh, papa ! " cried Arthur, " I don't want my horse. I can't take a 
real ride on him. He 's wooden, and I was tired of him long ago. I 
thought you meant for me to take a real ride," and the little fellow's eyes 
filled with tears. 

" So I do, my son," said his father, " and here comes the horse on 
which you are to take it. Is that animal real enough for you, sir ? " 

Around the corner came Joseph, leading a plump little black pony, 
with a long tail and mane, and a saddle, and bridle, and stirrups. 

Arthur was so astonished and delighted that at first he could not speak. 

" Well, what do you think of him ? " said his father. 

"Is that my horse?" said Arthur. 

" Yes, all your own." 

Arthur did not go to look at his pony. He turned and ran into the 
house, screaming at the top of his voice : 

" Mother ! mother ! I 've got a pony ! Come quick ! I 've got a pony 
— a real pony ! Aunt Rachel ! I 've got a pony. Laura ! Laura ! come, 
'I 've got a pony ! " 

When he came out again, his father said : " Come now, get on and try 
your new horse. He has been waiting here long enough." 

But Arthur was so excited and delighted, and wanted so much to run 
around his pony and look at him on all sides, and kept on telling his 
father how glad he was to get it, and how ever so much obliged he was 
to him for it, and what a good man he was, and what a lovelv pony the 




pony was, that his father could hardly get him still enough to sit in the 

However, he quieted down after a while, and his father put him on the 
pony's back, and shortened the stirrups so that they should be the right 
length for him, and put the reins in his hands. Now he was all ready 
for a ride, and Arthur wanted to gallop away. 

" No, no ! " said his father, " you cannot do that. You do not know 
how to ride yet. At first your pony must walk." 

So Arthur's father took hold of the pony's bridle and led him along 
the carriage-way in front of the house, and as the little boy rode off, 
sitting up straight in the saddle, and holding proudly to the reins, his 
mother and his aunt and his sister Laura clapped their hands, and cheered 
him ; and this made Arthur feel prouder than ever. 

He had a good long ride, up and down, and up and down, and the 
next day his father took him out again, and taught him how to sit and 
how to guide his pony. 

In a week or two Arthur could ride by himself, even when the pony 
was trotting gently ; and before long he rode all over the grounds, trot- 
ting or cantering or walking, just as he pleased. 

The pony was a very gentle, quiet creature, and Arthur's father felt 
quite willing to trust his little boy to ride about on him, provided he did] 
not £o far from home. 

Only once was there any trouble on the pony's account. As Arthur 
was riding in a field, one afternoon, there came along a party of gen-.; 
tlemen, who were hunting a fox. When they galloped away, over thej 
smooth grass, Arthur whipped up his pony, and went after them as fast 
as he could go. 

He went on and on, trying to keep up with the hunters, but he was 
soon left behind, for his pony could not gallop half as fast as the large, 
strong horses of the hunters. 

Then he turned to come back, but he got into the wrong field, and 
soon found that he did not know the way home. 

Arthur began to be very much frightened, for the sun was setting, 
and he could see no one of whom he could ask his way home. He first 
turned his pony this way and then that way, but the little horse was now 
hungry and tired, and he would not turn as Arthur wanted him to. 

Then the pony resolutely started off and trotted along, paying no atten- 
tion to Arthur's pulls and tugs, and did not stop until he had trotted right 
up to the door of Arthur's home. 




You see, he knew the way well enough. Horses and dogs seldom 
lose their way, unless they are very far from home. 

Arthur's parents were frightened at their little boy's long absence, and 
he was not allowed to ride again for three days, for he had been told not 
,:o go out of the field in which he was when he saw the hunters. 


: Arthur rode that pony until he became quite a big boy, and his feet 
iarly touched the ground as he sat in the saddle. Then he gave the 
ood little animal to a young cousin. 

But he never liked any horse so much as this ponv, which was his 
>vn, real horse, when he was such a little boy. 







(Drawn by a Young Contributor.) 


The Blue Jay courted the Yellow Cuckoo; 

'Neath its nest he would stay all day long, 
Smoothing his feathers of silver and blue, 
telling his love in a song: 

" Too-loo ! too-loo ! 
Oh, fly with me, 
My sweet Cuckoo, 
Across the sea ! " 

The Cuckoo came gayly forth from her nest; 

But just then an arrow flew by, 
Piercing the bird's soft yellow breast, 
Who died with a single sigh. 

" Too-loo ! too-loo ! " 

The Blue Jay said ; 
" What shall I do ? 
My love is dead ! " 

The Cuckoo lay cold and still on the ground — 

Dead, past all help to save ; 
And by a Bird-defender was found, 
Who dug her a little grave. 

" Too-loo ! too-loo ! " 

Was the sorrowful lay, 
For the gentle Cuckoo 

Sung by the Jay. A 


(A Critique.) 

" Mary had a little lamb." 

In this poem each stanza, we may say each line, is unalloyed gold. 
Let us examine the first line. 

''Man'." The name strikes us at once as belonging tc one 
pure as the inside of an apple-bloom ; and the rest of the poem assures 
us, that by making Mary's name an index to Mary's character, we 
have nut been milled. A master's hand is visible from the first word. 

" A little lamb." The poet does not take for granted, as one of 
less genius would, that because a lamb is mentioned the reader 
necessarily sees in his mind's eye one of the frolicsome, gentle, con- 

fiding creatures commonly accepted as an emblem of meekness 
Not at all. The lamb is not only a lamb — it is a little lamb. Thu, 
never in the whole course of the poem can we by any oversight loo I 
upon Mary's treasure as a sheep; it retains its infantile sweetne* 
and grace through the entire narration. The poet thus draws oi 
attention to the youth of the animal, in order to palliate the littl 
creature's after-guilt. This is done with such grace and delicacj 
that it is scarcely perceptible. 

The line, as a whole, shows a touch of high art seldom seen in \ 
short a poem. The writer knows human nature— that, we see at 
glance. Else, would he not have entered into a detailed account c 
Mary's parentage, her appearance, place of residence, or, at le: 
the manner in which she became possessed of the lamb. But no; ; 
is left to the imagination. Man - may be as blonde as the "Fair oB 
with golden locks," as dark as " Black Agnes." Each reader has 
heroine after his own heart, and each is satisfied. 

" Its fleece was white as snow." 

No black sheep for lamb) could we in any way imagine as a con 
panion of Mary — gentle, affectionate, pure little Mary. All her a 
sociates must be pure as herself. 

"And everywhere that Mary went 
The lamb was sure to go." 

Does not this suit the character given to Mary by her name? \\ 
can image to ourselves the lost lamb, the mournful bleating for i 
mother, its hunger and cold. In the depth of its misery we see Mary 
sweet face bending pityingly over it; she raises it, takes it home, 
revives, and loves her; she loves it in return. Can we wonder that 
follows in her footsteps wherever she goes? Those two lines bl 
more than many a volume; but they must be read feelingly, or : 
is lost. 

Now follows a tale of wrong-doing and of subsequent punishmei 
This is, indeed, a master-stroke ; for this climax we were not prepare 

"It followed her to school one day, 
Which was against the rule " 

Although the lamb follows its mistress everywhere, school is a taboo 
place. Yet the little creature cannot live without Mary, who h 
departed fairand fresh as Overbury's " Happy Milkmaid." Long e 
the hours that must elapse ere Mary's return, and the lamb tires 
the waiting. "It followed her to school one day." How innocc 
an act that seems! — how natural! Then we read the next line, 
" Which was against the rule," and the lamb's action is turned fh 
innocence to guilt Mary's favorite, that we have seen heretofore 
only a good light, violates deliberately a rule of the school whi 
Mary attends. The short sight of the animal's spiritual eyes prevei 
it from knowing the extent of the disgrace to which it is to be si 
jected. At present the end justifies the means in its little heart, a 
it leaves its pleasant home to wander schoolward, and we are left 
imagine its thoughts on the way. 

A scene in the school-house bursts upon us, and 

"It makes the children laugh and play 
To see a lamb at school." 

This is another instance in which we are shown the poet's kno 
edge of human nature. At anything less than the sight of a lamb 
little scholars are too well trained to laugh. This has no precede 
Thev have been told how to behave should a dog enter the room, 1 
should a ludicrous error in lessons occur; but when a lamb n 
soberly in, — not gamboling now; conscience. already whispers; 
morse eats at the little creature's peace of mind, — it is not to be < 
pected that order can be longer maintained, and the school, with t 
exception of Mary, runs riot Mary is perhaps, meanwhile, repxoal 
ing her pet with a look " more in sorrow than in anger; " she is •' 
gentle to scold, but that glance completely fills the lamb's cup oi ! 
row; it is yet to overrun, and the drop is soon poured in — the d» 
beneath " the lowest deep " is soon reached. 

"For this the teacher turned him out." 

It was his duty, reader: judge him not harshly. 

"But still he lingered near." 

This, at least, was not forbidden,— to wait for his little mistress. 

"And waited patiently about 
Till Mary did appear." 

How fraught with significance is that one word, "patiently! " 
too ea^rer before, that was the lamb's fault, "and grievously hath [| 
answered it" He has turned over a new leaf, and wandering s* 



sslv about, now nibbling a cowslip, now rolling in the young grass 
still the remorse gnawing at his heart, we can imagine him resolv- 
g to be a better lamb in the future, — to grow more worthy Mary's 


"'What makes the Iamb love Mary so?' 
The eager children cry." 

All have noticed this devotion — all wonder at it The teacher 
I iswers in words that prove how well we read Mary's affectionate 
i uure : 

" ' Why, Mary loves the lamb, you know,' 
The teacher did reply." 

What could bi: a more worthy ending to so fine a poem than that 

L e loves of the two. human and brute, should be recognized by all 

[ ary's little world, her school-mates and her teacher. More poems 

Dee this, sentiments so pure clad in plain Saxon words, would make 

ir world — wonderful and beautiful, as it now is — a fitter place of 

veiling for "men and the children of men." We regret but one 

>int about this gem,— that its author is "A Great Unknown." 

C. McK. 


There was a prince named William, 

And he had a sister, too ; 
He was sailing o'er the English Channel, 

Over the Channel so blue. 

His father had gone ahead ; 

And he made the boat go fast, 
But soon it struck upon a rock; 

There was a shock to the very mast ! 

And everybody did wail, 

And everybody did cry, 
Because everybody thought 

That everybody must die! 

Prince William rushed into a boat, — 

Several lords and he, — 
And he was steering for the land, 

Across the dark blue sea. 

In the midst of the general weeping, 

He heard his sister's cry, 
And he made the boat go back, 

For he would not let her die ! 

When he got near the ship, 

When he was touching her side, 
Down the side of the big ship 

Everybody did glide. 

Down went the little boat, 
Too frail for such a load , 

Down went the people in it, 
And the people that rowed. 

Down went the big ship, 

Her topmast in the air, 
And, if a person were near enough, 

He might see a man clinging there. 

The name of this man was Bcrold, 

And he was a butcher by trade, 
And by the help of a buff garment 

On the top of the water he stayed. 

In the morning some fishermen came 

And delivered him from the mast; 
And after he was recovered, 

His tale he told at last 

When the king heard of the death of his children, 

He fainted away for a while, 
And from that day he was 

Never was seen to smile! 

H. W. 


" A snowy, windy day. Oh, how dismal ! " sighed Allie. "I wish 
it would clear off, so that I could go out-doors and play." 

With this, Allie, who had been standing by the window gazing out 
at the gray sky, sat down and commenced to read that beautiful book, 
" May Stanhope." After reading quietly for more than an hour, she 
laid down the book, exclaiming : " I can and will try to be of some 
use in the world. I do nothing but mope when it rains, or when any- 
thing goes wrong. I will try to help others who need my help. I will, 
ask mamma if I can carry something to Miss Davies. I am sure she 
needs some help." 

" Oh, the sun is shining! " Allie jumped up, and ran out of the 
room to ask her mother if she would let her go to Miss Davies's. 
While she is gone I will tell you briefly who she is. Her name is 
Allie Harris, and she is a bright little girl, only apt to be dull on dark 

Her mother gave the desired permission, and after wrapping her- 
self up warmly, she took the well-filled basket that her mother had 
prepared, and set out on her errand of mercy. She soun reached 
Miss Davies's tiny cottage. She knocked, and a cheery voice bade 
her enter. She walked into a neat room, barely but cleanly furnished. 
At one end of it. beside a window, around which an ivy was crowing, 
sat a bright-faced little woman sewing. She looked up and greeted 
Allie pleasantly. Allie shyly made known her errand, and stayed 
with Miss Davi;-s all the afternoon, singing and reading aloud while 
Miss Davies sewed. 

When it began to grow dark she bade Miss Davies a cheerful 
good-by, and went merrily home. She said to her mother, "I have 
learned the true secret of happiness at last." By doing good to 
others you will forget your own unhappiness, and be made happy in 
return; while, if you mope and try to be disagreeable, you will be 
miserable. F. H. 

(Drawn by a Young Contributor.) 





Our beautiful new cover was designed and drawn by Walter Crane, 
of London, who made all those lovely pictures in " The Baby's 
Opera." Our readers will remember what we said of him last month, 
and that, though a great artist in other ways also, he has done his 
beat and most famous work in drawing for the litde folks. It would 
have been impossible, therefore, to find a hand more skillful in the 
kind of art desired, or better fitted to put upon the cover of St. 
Nicholas just the things to suit the best tastes and fancier and of 
Mr. Crane's success we think that no one who really studies the new 
cover can have a doubt. It seems to us fully worthy both of the 
artist and the magazine; and, believing that our young readers will 
all agree with us, we leave them the delight of discovering and enjoy- 
ing for themselves its special beauties. 

There is a beautiful custom in England — which it is to be hoped 
will yet become general in America — of sending around Christmas 
cards, dainty things with lovely pictures and hearty verses upon 
them. Friends and lovers send them to one another, children send 
them to their parents, parents to their children, and the postman, as 
he fiies from house to house, fairly glows with loving messages. 

And now St. Nicholas presents to one and all the sweet little card 
on page gi, which was drawn by Miss L. Greenaway, a London 
artist, who has drawn many beautiful pictures of child-life. A com- 
panion card will be given next month. 

We are sure all our readers will appreciate the very comical pictures 
on pages 144 and 145, which illustrate the funny story of " The 
Magician and His Bee." But some of our older boys and girls may 
be able to put them to another use, — which, also, would cause much 
fun and merriment, — for these pictures would form an admirable 
series of magic-lantern slides. And all that is needed to make them 
is a little skill with the brush and — patience. 

Take an outline tracing of each figure; arrange all the tracings for 
each slide on the glass strip, according to their positions in the pict- 
ure ; then, by a slight touch of mucilage, or by holding each one with 
the forefinger, secure them in their places until the outlines can be 
traced on the glass. Fill up all the space outside the tracings with 
black paint, and, this done, put in the shadings of the figures (lines 
of features, costumes, etc.) with touches of the brush, according to 
the lines in the printed pictures, until the reproductions upon the slide 
are true and complete. 

Once done, the pictures, enlarged and thrown upon a screen, would 
be very funny indeed ; and if, when they are exhibited, some one will 
read the story aloud, so as to describe the slides as they succeed each 
other, you may count upon having a jolly time. 

Kiukiang, China, August 18, 1877. 
Dear St. Nicholas : I am not so far out of the world but that I 
can receive and read your excellent magazine. I look forward to 
mail day with much pleasure, especially the mail which brings the 
St. Nicholas. I read every number through. I enjoy reading the 
letters from the little boys and girls, I suppose, because I am a little 
boy myself. There are no American boys here except my three litde 
brothers. We would like to have a play with some of the boys who 
write for your magazine. The little boys of China have no such 
magazine as yours. I wish they had; it would make better boys of 
them. The children of the better class of Chinese go to school. 
There they learn to commit to memory the Chinese characters. In 
repeating the characters, they sway back and forth; it 's real comical 
to see them. They repeat in a sing-song tone. They go to school 
at six in the morning. They have a rest at noon, after which they 
remain in the evening until eight o'clock. They have no idea of 
what we have in America ; they are even stupid enough to ask if we 
have a sun and moon, and all such questions. My home is on the 
banks of the threat river Yang-tse ; nine miles back from the river are 
the Lu-Say Mountains, five thousand feet high. The foreign neople 
find it very cool up in the mountains. There are several large pools 
of water where they bathe. I have written more than I expected to. 
— Good-by, dear St. Nicholas, from your reader, 

Evanston Hart. 

Readers who were interested in Professor Proctor's letter ab aw 
the Sea-Serpent, in St. Nicholas for August last, may like to reaM 
also these litde extracts on the same subject : 

From the Neiv York "Independent" 

A sea-monster was seen by the officers of H. M. S. "Osborne," 
June 2, off the coast of Sicily, which is sketched by Lieut. Hayiu ! 
and figured in the London Graphic. The first sketch is merely a 
a long row of fins just appearing above the water, of irregular heigh;'] 
and extending, says Lieutenant Osburne, from thirty to forty feet i 
length. The other sketch is of the creature as seen " end on," an! 
shows only the head, which was "bullet-shaped and quite six feil 
thick," and a couple of flappers, one on each side. The creatmji 
was, says Lieutenant Osborne, at least fifteen or twenty feet win 
across the back, and "from the top of the head to the part of tli 
back where it became immersed I should consider about fifty feet, aH 
that seemed about a third of its whole length." Thus it is certain!;. 
much longer than any fish hitherto known to the zoologists, and ij 
at least, as remarkable a creature as most of the old wonder-make 1 ! 
ever alleged. 

From the "National Tcac/iers' Monthly" September. 

Mr. John Kieller Webster says he has seen the sea-serpent in tl J 
Straits of Malacca. Its body was fifty feet in length, the head tweM j 
feet, and the tail one hundred and fifty. It seemed to be a hiijjj 
salamander. The Chinese on board the ship were so frightened, thqj 
set up a howl, — a circumstance very remarkable. 

The Game of Fagot-Gathering. 

There is a jolly in-door game, for the winter, called "Fa^cM 
Gathering," which has been described in print before, but it makj] 
so much fun that many who have never heard of it will be glad if \ 
tell about it here. 

First you take some slips of paper, — as many as there are playci| 
— and on one of them you write " Fagot-Gatherer; " on each of tl|| 
rest you write either "good wood" or "snapper," making tlirli 
times as many " good woods" as " snappers." Of course, anybo<|| 
who knows about wood-fires will see that this is because some sticl 
will burn quietly and brightly while others will crack and snap aij| 
fly without the least warning. You put the papers into a hat, ail 
each player takes one, telling nobody what is written on it. Evel 
one then sits as near to the wall as possible, leaving a clear space j, 
the middle of the room, and the player who has chosen the " Fag< ( '' 
Gatherer" slip proceeds in a serious, business-like way to bunt' I 
the fagots. He, or she, chooses four or five girls and boys, standi: j 
them together to represent a fagot, and then makes similar groups I 
the rest in other parts of the room. This done, he begins to "biil 
the fagots" by walking slowly around each group, making with I 
arms such motions as a real fagot-binder would make. The " stick:) J 
are quiet until the binder lets his arms fall, but then comes a sudd j 
change; the " good woods " run to their seats, but the "snapperfl 
chase the "binder" and try to touch him before he can begin to biji 
another " fagot; " failing in this, they have to go and mourn amo! . 
the "good woods." Then the binding of the second "fagot" gel 
on, like that of the first. But when a "fagot-gatherer" is touchi; 
the "snapper" takes the place of the "gatherer," who goes and re! 
himself. The game ends when all the "fagots" have been used I 
in this way, and is then begun again by another selection of pap< 
from the hat. The fun is in the frights and surprises of the "fag, 
gatherer," who, of course, does not know who is a "good wood" a. 
who a "snapper; " and all do their best to avoid betraying the 4 
selves. I f you have a good big room and lots of players you will fi 
this game as full of fun as you can wish. 

Philadelphia, September 16, i877- : . 
Dear St. Nicholas : I was looking over your September run 
ber, and happened to read a letter addressed to the " Little Sclio 1 
ma'am," and signed "Father of two school-girls;" it was ab<i! 
school lunches, and told of a visit to the new Normal school of Phi . 
delphia; he said that in the lunch hall there is a long table on wffll 
there was nothing but cakes of all sorts. Now, being a member 
the school, I was a little hurt at the injustice done to our school. 



I6 5 

iow there is something else but cake, — fruit, milk, soup, sandwiches, 
C.j being among the other things that are spread on the lunch- 
ble, provided by the janitor, and sold to the girls at very low rates, 
j you see I bad reason to be a little indignant at the discredit done 
our school, and set about repairing it as far as possible ; and you, 
0, can help repair the harm done to this fine public school by kindly 
•inting this note. But I must close, for my letter is getting too long. 
•Your true friend, 

A Member of the Model Classes Primary Department. 
(Aged eleven years.) 

Science at Home. 

i Brooklyn. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I am an old boy, but not too old to be one 
your most delighted readers ; and I am glad of the present chance 
send you my good wishes, and say my say. Here it is: 
Be sure and tell your youngsters to bear in mind that opportunities 
•home study on their own accounts are multiplying around them 
y by day, and that in taking advantage of them they will not only 
id great enjoyment and add to their stock of knowledge, but also 
11 come upon hundreds of ways in which to amuse their friends, 
th old and young. 

Here, for instance, come Professor Mayer, and your frequent con- 
butor, Mr. Charles Barnard, with a little book about "Light." 
ley are not content with merely telling the dry facts about thcir 
bject, but, with pictures and plain speech, they explain how almost 
y boy or girl may, at small cost, make his or her own apparatus, 
d with it verify by actual trial what the book says. Some of the 
periments are positively beautiful, and the hardest is not -very 

Then, loo, Professor Tyndall has written out his lectures to young 
3ple, given before the Royal Institution at London during 1S75-76, 
a Httle work called " Lessons in Electricity," — most interesting and 
mtifiil of scientific studies, — in which he tells how to make the in- 
uments and conduct the experiments yourself. And, as if that 
re not enough, Mr. Curt W. Meyer, of the Bible House, New 
>rk, has arranged to supply a complete set of instruments, to suit 
s book of Professor Tyndall's, at a total cost of $55, packing-case 
i all; the various articles being obtainable separately at propor- 
nate prices. 

only wish we had had such chances fifty years ago; for, if our older 
•nds had not made presents of such things to us, — as no doubt 
, ny oldsters will to your young folks this coming Christmas, — we 'd 
/e saved up our pocket money and gone ahead alone. I know that 
lade all my own electrical apparatus; but there was good fun in 
I ng it, and it worked well, and made splendid times for our circle 
/oung folks on cozy winter evenings. 

hope you will read this letter through, although it is as long as 
st old men's memories. — Yours still affectionately, 

Gran'ther Horton. 

Jamaica, L. I. 

)ear St. Nicholas : I read Jack-in-thc-Pulpit's inquiry in the 
gust number about the " Fiery Tears of St. Lawrence." Y'ester- 
' I was reading a book, and in it there was an article headed 
i howers of Stars." I read it, and at the end of it was a piece 
1 ich seemed to be an answer to Jack's question. I copied word for 
1 'd from the book. Here it is : 

\ ' Another writer suggests the theory that a stream or group of 
' umerable bodies, comparatively smail, but of various dimensions, 
' 'Weeping around the solar focus in an orbit, which periodically 
: ; the orbit of the earth, thus explaining the actual cause of shoot- 
; stars, aerolites, and meteoric showers." 

. his is all I have been able to find out, and I hope it is correct- — 
ieve me to be yours very truly, C. A. R. 

'. A R,, and others who wish to know more of this subject, will 
. all the latest information in " Appleton"s Cyclopaedia," under the 
is "Aerolite" and "Meteor," where admirably clear and con- 
sed accounts are given of all that is known about these bodies. 
■A, R.'s extract states the theory most generally held. 

Tableaux from St. Nicholas Pictures. 

Brooklyn, November, 1S77. 
'ear Old St. Nicholas : My little sisters and my brother love 
, and so do I, for your monthly visits make our house brighter 
pleasanter to us all. I am fifteen, not yet too old to be one of 
r children, you see. 

i 'hat I want to tell you is bow easily some of your pictures can be 
ed into tableaitx-vivants, or even acted. There was " Pattikin's 
ise; "lam sure we had the greatest fun with those pictures, we 
gso many girls: and "The man all tattered and torn that mar- 
the maiden all forlorn ; " that was on p. 652 of the volume for 
i: 'The Minuet," in January, 1S77: " Hagar in the Desert," in 

' i, 1877; my aunty did that, and it was lovely: the little girl in 
ie Owl That Stared," in November, 1S76; and " Leap-Y'ear," in 

the same number. All these we had at our own home, but there are 
lots of others that might suit some folks belter than they would suit us. 

This winter some of your pictures will be used in a series of grand 
tableaux for our Sunday-school entertainments. A number of people 
belonging to the school can paint scenes, get up costumes, and all 
that. It is going to be splendid. 

I ihought that your other children, you dear old St. Nicholas, 
would surely like to know about this, and 1 hope I have not made 
my letter too long. From yours lovingly, Mina B. H. 

Mary C. Warren answered correctly all the puzzles in the Octo- 
ber "Riddle-Box," but her answers came too late for acknowledg- 
ment in the November number. 

Black Oak Ridge, Passaic County, N. J. 
Mrs. Editor: Excuse me writing to you, but I want to ask you 
if you think it is right to be killing cats all the time, for my brother 
Eddie has killed fifteen this year, and whenever I scold him about it, 
he begins to sing pilly willy winkum bang dow diddle ee ing ding 
poo poo fordy, pilly willy winkum bang. There, there he stands now 
behind the bam with his hands full of lumps of coal watching for one 
that killed his chicken a month ago. O dear, if he would only stop 
killing cats what a good boy he would be ! He always gives me half 
of his candy, and he raises such nice melons in his garden. O, O, 
as true as I live there he goes now after the poor cat. Good, good, 
good — neither piece of coal hit her. What can I do to stop his bad 
habit. I think it is too bad even if they do kill his chicks once in a 
while. I have only got two cats left, Dick and Mizy, and he watches 
them awful close — Your friend, Katie Baker. 

New York. 
Dear St Nicholas : I want to send this story to The letter box 
that I wrote when I was 6 years old this is it 

Little May 

Once upon a time there lived a little girl whose father and mother 
were very rich, so the little girl had lovely dresses, but she had a very 
bad temper and was very proud so nobody loved her. One day this 
little girl I might as well tell you her name it was May was sitting in 
her mothers lap M ama said she what makes everybody act so to me ? 
Dear said her mother it is because you are so proud and get angry so 
easily then said May if I should try to be good would they like me 
Y'es said her mother so after that May was a better child and every 
body liked her even her mother loved her better than before and so 
did her father and after that the little girl was no more saying Oh 
dear nobody loves me but lived happy and contented. 

Elise L. Lathrop. 

Geneva, N. Y. 
Dear St. Nicholas: I notice in a chapter of " His Own Mas- 
ter" for September a mistake which I can correct. In describing the 
Cincinnati suspension bridge, it says that trains go across on it. This 
is a mistake, as that bridge is only used for carriages, horse-cars and 
pedestrians, the steam-cars going across on another bridge above. 
There is now building a new railroad bridge below for the new 
Southern Railroad. — Yours respectfully, W. S. N. 

San Leandro, Cal., Sept 3, 1877. 
Dear St. Nicholas: I tried the Little Schoolma'am's way of 
pressing flowers, and I think it is ever so nice. I pressed a wall- 
flower; it retained all its brightness and looked just like a fresh 
flower. Last spring we discovered a humming-bird's nest in one of 
the trees in our orchard. It was very pretty, being no larger than 
half of a hen's egg. The first time I saw it the little mother was on 
it ; she sat as still as a stone, and looked as if she would not budge 
an inch for me or anybody else. I am always very glad when the 
St. Nicholas comes. — Y'our affectionate little reader, 

Susie R. Irwin. 

Princeton, N. J. 
Dear St. Nicholas: I would like to tell you of the interesting 
expedition I made last August to the college observatory here for the 
purpose of seeing the three planets, Jupiter, Mars and Saturn. 
Through the telescope we were shown Mars burning with a ruddy 
glow, and having on the rim of one side a bright white spot, which 
the professor told us was the ice piled up around the north pole; 
Saturn with its rings, seen with wonderful clearness, and shining 
pale and far off in comparison with Mars; Jupiter with its two dark 
bands around the center, and three of its satellites plainly visible; 
and, last, the moon with its curiously indented surface and ragged 
edge. The telescope was small, so we could not, of course, see the 
newly discovered satellites of Mars, the professor saying that there 
were only two instruments in this country that would show them. 
Hoping that you may have as good an opportunity to see these 
splendid heavenly bodies as I have had, I remain, your friend, 

B. H. S. 

1 66 




Baby Days, a selection of Songs, Stones and Pictures for Very 
Little Folks, with an introduction by the Editor of St. Nicholas, and 
300 illustrations. Scribncr & Co. — This large and very handsome 
book has been made up from St. Nicholas, and nearly all from the 
pages devoted to the "Very Little Folks," and although the readers 
of this magazine know that there have been many good things in that 
department, they can have no idea, until they see it gathered together 
in this book, what a wealth of pictures, stories, funny little poems and 
jingles have been offered the little ones in St. Nicholas. To chil- 
dren who have never read St. Nicholas, this book, with iis three 
hundred pictures, — to say nothing of its other contents, — will be a 
revelation ; to children who take the magazine, it will bring up many 
pleasant recollections of good things they have enjoyed. 

About Old Story-Tellers — of How and When they Lived, 
and what Stories they Told. By Donald G. Mitchell. Published by 
Scribner, Armstrong & Co. — When any one comes late to dinner 
nothing can be kinder than to bring -back for him some of the good 
things which may have been removed before his arrival, — and some- 
thing very like this has here been done by Mr. Mitchell for the boys 
and girls who came into this world too late to hear in their original 
freshness all the good stories that were the delight of their fathers and 
mothers when they were children. And these fine old stories are all 
so nicely warmed up (if we may so express it) by the author of the 
book, and so daintily and attractively presented to our boys and girls, 
that some older folks may be in doubt whether or not they would 
have lost anything in this respect if they, too, had happened to come 
a little late to the feast furnished by Defoe, Dean Swift, Miss Edge- 
worth, Oliver Goldsmith, the man who wrote the "Arabian Nights," 
and other good old story-tellers. 

tically its many recipes. The only fault we have to find with it ■■ 
the great preponderance of cakes and pastry and sweets over healt' 
ful dishes and the more solid kinds of cookery. 

A very pleasant little book is The Wings of Courage, adaptj- 
from the French for American boys and girls by Marie E. Field, av 
published by the Putnams. The three stories which make up til 
book will delight fairy-loving boys and girls. They are illustrated fl 
Mrs. Lucy G. Morse, the author of " The Ash-Girl," well known 
St. Nicholas readers. The pictures all are pretty, but to our r 
the best of all is " Margot and Neva," illustrating "Queen Coax." 

Betty and her Cousin Harry. By Miss Sarah E. Chest 1 
American Tract Society, N. Y. Price, $1 ; postage, 7 cents. — Tfl 
book tells in a bright and lively way about the pranks of a me; 
little girl and her boy-cousin. There is plenfy of good fun and ew 
will throughout, especially in the parts that tell of the doings of ' 
two young madcaps on April Fools' Day and the Fourth of Jul 1 
and of the queer way in which Toby, the pet crow, becomes pea 
maker between them. 

The Bodleys Telling Stories. Hurd & Houghton. — N^ 
of our young friends who have read "The Doings of the Bod; 
Family " will need to be told that this new volume is filled with stofl 
bright, interesting, and helpful ; and the Bodley folks have aire: 
gained so many friends and admirers that the book will be sura 
make its way. We said of the former volume that it was charming, 1 
the new one is even more exquisitely printed, and has a cover even r 
quaint and beautiful. So we cordially commend it to our young fine* 
as a book which will both satisfy their interest and benefit their tas'. 

Our little housekeepers, especially those who have puL into practice 
Marion Harland's admirable recipes which we gave in our third and 
fourth volumes, will be delighted with a little book published by Jan- 
sen, McClurg & Co., of Chicago. It is called Six Little Cooks; 
or, Aunt Jane's Cooking-Class, — and, while it is really an interesting 
narrative in itself, it delightfully teaches girls just how to follow prac- 

The Christmas Story-Ti-ller, published by Scribner, Weljl 
& Armstrong, is a well-illustrated collection of excellent Christ)! 
stories by English writers. It is meant for papas and mammas rail 
than little folks, but some of our older boys and giils may enjeyfl 
Christmas Lales by such authors as Mark Lemon, Edmund Ye 
Tom Hood, Shirley Brooks, and that very funny man, F. C. Burnsl 



Our readers will here find a " knight's move " problem, similar to 
the one published in the " Riddle-Box " of St. Nicholas for Febru- 
ary, 1874. By beginning at the right word and going from square to 
square as a knight moves, you will hnd an eight-line quotation from 
an old poet. The verse is quoted in one of " Elia's Essays." M. 

















vines ; 







































place ; 


twines ; 







The whole, composed of six letters, is a New England city. 
1 is a numeral. The 1 2 is a word signifying " Behold ! " The 
is cheap. 1'he 234 is to be indebted. The 34 is a pronoun. 
3 4 5 C is a cistern. The 4 5 6 is a measure. c. 


By taking one letter from each line of this verse, you will nnijd 
acrostic which spells a holiday greeting. The letters, too, are 'ft 
straight line with one another — but what letters shall be taken ? 
Coming with merry feet to young and old, 
Where snow and ice would block his onward way; 
Strive they in vain his eager step to stay, 
For Santa Claus is curious as bold. 
Why should he not know what the ovens hold ? 
Such odors tempt him, and he must obey! 
School-boys and matrons, grandsires, maidens gay, 
Forgive him if he warm his fingers cold 
While waiting : Arrows from his mystic pack — 
Wise fellow ! see him choose ! " These (from my bow 
With shaft of silver, tipped with jewel rare, 
Aimed with the skill which Love can well impart, 
Shall strike the center of the coyest heart! 
Lest Santa Claus be slighted, then, beware!" 


In each sentence, fill the first two blanks with two words ww, 
joined together, will form a word to fill the remaining blank. 

1. "Do you buy paper or reams?" one si<»- 

girl of another. ■?.. Puritans do not regard it as yoi et 

men might. 3. He built when in , and In e -kc 

the natives themselves. 





'he initials and finals of the words represented by the small pictures name two objects to be seen in the central picture. Two other words 
, relating to the central picture may also be found in succession, by taking one letter from each of the words 

represented by the small pictures. L. J. 


The answer is a proverb relating to Christmas. Forty-four letters. 
,' 2 30 g 8 24 38 15 22 32 27, and also 25 20 n 3S 31 25, and 6 13 
35 259 18 29 2 are used in Christmas decorations. 36 1 26 42 9 16 
rung, 44 41 7 38 39 31 16 are told, 24 4 6 2 12 are played, 10 n 
26 21 2 5 12 is laid aside, 19 9 43 38 35 37 r6 are brightened bv yule 
3] 34 23 14 1 r 20 25 salutations are exchanged, 28 2? 4 S 35 44 glad- 
led, and 3 7 n 38 27 winged, all at the good old Christmas-time. 



I he answers will give respectively the names of sixteen authors. 

■ A cat's cry and a Scotch lake. 2, The value of the rim 3. A 
- ch or clumsy cut between a sunbeam and the old ladies' beverage. 

\ man's name and an island. 5. A teacher commanding one of 
( male scholars to perform his task. 6. A bun and a hotel. 7. A 
' it, and a "k," and a measure of length. S. Strong and well. 
9. Two-thirds of an eye ; a Scotch title prefixed ; 
With a shoe-maker's tool nicely put in betwixt; 
If you look at it closely, I think you will rind 
An essayist, poet, historian, combined. 
Conqueror, embrace O. n. Indispensable to printers, and a little 

■ 12, A bit, and a horse's cry. 13. A small nail and a Spanish 
'- 14. A bov's nickname and an humble dwelling. 15. The 
narch Jacob between " D " and myself. 

16. If two pretty girl-names together you tie 

(Some E's you must lose, for " [ can't tell a lie "), 

The name of two poets at once you 'II descry. M. M, 


The wheel is made of four words of seven letters each, with a 
common central letter. The first word is written vertically, the second 
horizontally, the third diagonally from left to right, and the fourth 
diagonally from right to left. The half of each word, from the out- 
side to the central letter (but not including that letter), forms a smaller 
word. The whole line of dots from ia to \b, including the central 
letter, indicates the first of the four principal words, while \a indicates 
the first of the small words belonging to it, and ib indicates its second 
small word. This numbering and lettering applies also to the other 
words. The central letter is given, and all the words are defined below. 

3j . 

. 4a 




1. A wall of defense, 2. A brilliant bird of South America, 
enthusiast. 4. The noise of a drum. 

ia. Equal value, id. A fondling, ia. The human race, ib A 
relative. 3a. An article of summer use. 3/'. Involuntary muscular 
motion. 4a. To chafe. 4b. To entide. B. 

1 68 




Eight dominoes placed together form a square composed of sixteen half-dominoes, as shown in the diagram below But, in the diagra 
each row of four half-dominoes contains a different number of spots from any of the other rows. Thus the topmost row, counting hori 
zontally. contains eighteen spots; the one beluw it only four; the first row to the left, counting vertically, ten ; the diagonal row, 
downward from left to right, eight, etc. It is required to make a square of eight dominoes of the same set, in which each, 
vertical, horizontal, and diagonal row of half-dominoes shall contain exactly sixteen spots. Who can do it? j 


The puzzle contains ten words of 
ten letters each. Fill the blanks with 
words suited to the sense, and arrange 
these one above another in the order 
in which they occur in the sentences. 
They will then form a square, and 
the diagonal letters, read downward 
from left to right, will name a friend 
we all like. 

{the same person as the diag- 
onal, with another name) boys, 

and the children may well put in 

a friend who can so much to 

their happiness. No ordinary person 

is to him ; and the legend 

us to the belief that he is well-nigh 

that tells of the exercise of 

his power in a manner, and on 

account of which he deserves to be 
called the " " patron. b. 


Supply the blanks with wurds to 

complete the sense, and transpose 

them into an appropriate proverb, 

with no letter repeated. 

'When Santa Claus, laughing at Christmas cold.. 

Leaps gayly out from his of gold, 

No clattering disturb the house, 

But down the as still as a 

He glides to lighten his burdened back, 
By tossing treasures from out his pack ; 

Then up and off, with no behind 

But the " Merry Christmas" you all shall find. 


Initials, read downward, a m; 
read upward, a biblical locality. C 
trals, read downward, a portion ; n 
upward, a snare. Finals, read dn\ 
ward, something seen at night ; 
upward, small animals. 

i. Stupid persons. 2. Toward 

stem of a ship. 3. An insect i 

caterpillar state. 4. To come in. 

N. T. 1 


In work, but not in play; a don 
tic animal : a singing bird ; a h 
carriage ; in night, but not in daj 



1. She is such a sweet, 1234 
child, I feel sure that I can 
123 45 6 7 of her love. 

2. " Will you 1234 56 rov 
said the 123456. 

3. If you do 1234 567891 
about the stem of the vase, choose the delicate 123456789 jo 

4. Shall you 1234 5678 91011 12 for robbing the poor I 
123456789 10 11 12's nest ? 

5. My 12 34 56 7 a house to the 1 2 34 567 of ten children. 

6. Shall it be a sail, 123, 45 67 8, — 1 2345678? Which 
it is to be, we must prepare for it to-day, Tom. 

7. 1234! 56781234, I shall always be interested in 
12345678. . 



• €>• 




© 9 
9 9 

9 9 







9 9 
9 9 


9 9 
9 9 

9 9 

9 9 




Double Acrostic. — Franklin, Herschel. 
F — rit— H 
R _, JS _ E 
A — lde— R 
N — autilu — S 
K — ennebe — C 
L —arc- H 
I _sl— E 
N — icke— L 
Broken Words. — 1. Forgotten — forgot ten. 2. Offences — of 
fences. 3. Significant — sign if I can't. 4. Firmament — firm ament. 
Pictorial Numerical Rebus. — 





Beheadings and Curtailings. — i. Shame, Sham, Ham, Ha 

2. White, Whit, Hit, It, I. 3. Coral, Cora, Ora, Or, R. 4. Sj 
Pine, Pin, In, I. 5. Honey, Hone, One, On, O. 

Easy Diamond Puzzle. — D, Cid, Clara, Diamond, Droit, Ani 

Charade. — Stratagem. 

Puzzle Bouquet. — 1. Foxglove. 2. Hawkweed. 3. Tubei 
4. Candytuft. 5. Snapdragon. 6. Wall-flower. 7. Sweet-pea. 8. 
sam (Ball Sam). 9. Snowdrop,. 10. Marigold (Many Gold). 

Transpositions. — 1. Earth, heart 2. Oder, rode. 3. Wells, s 
4. Evil, Levi. 5. Edges, sedge. 

Letter Anagrams. — 1. LoverP — Plover. 2. R afterS— Ra) 

3. S and T — Stand. 4. P under L — Plunder. 5. Et upon Ic— 

Hidden Dress Goods. — 1. Calico. 2. Gingham. 3. CoB: 

4. Linen. 5. Serge. 6. Merino. 7. Silk. 8. Satin. 9. Muslir 
Pictorial Proverb-Acrostic— -" The longest day must haiHH 


Hour-Glass Puzzle.- 



— e Deu — 




— yosciam — 







— as — 







— ux Vomic— 



— love{ — e — 




— y— 







— uree — 




— nip — 




■ — ndiro — 




— ar — 


>,o8 7 ,i 5 8,i78 








Numerical Enigma. — Cleopatra — ale, top, car. 

The Answers to the Pictorial Puzzles in the October " Riddle-Box" were accidentally omitted from the November nu< 
and are given here. Rebus : "Liars are not to be believed or respected." Pictorial Proverb- Anagram : " Listeners never heany 
good of themselves " 

Answers to All the Puzzles in the October Number have been received from Harry H Neill, George J. Fiske, Eddie Vee, 
John W. Riddle, Marion Abbott, Harriet M. Hall, Grant Squires, George Herbert White, William Kiersted, Maxwell W. Turner, Infc 
Elliott, H. V. Wiirdem;inn, Alice B. Moore, "Clarinet," Sophie Owen Smith, Julia Abbott, Alice M. King, Mary W. Ovington, "Mai2»' 
Edith Metriam, Eddie H. Eckel, " Bessie and her Cousin," Alice Bertram, M. W. Collet, and "A. B. C." 

Answers to Special Ptzzles were also received, previous to October iSth, from Georgictta N. Congdon, Bessie Dorsey, FrcM- 
Pease, T. M. Ware, A. G. Cameron, "May," Rosie S. Palmer, Julia Lathers, Florence Wilcox, Edwin R. Garsia, Lizzie M. Knapp, & 
B. McNary, May Danfortb, Katie Earl. W. Creighton Spencer, W. Irving Spencer, Carrie M. Hart, Edna A. Hart, Olive E. Hart, f 
Emery, Gertrude Eager, and Alice T. Booth. 


[See Letter-Box.] 


Vol. V. 

JANUARY, 1878. 

No. 3. 

[Copyright, 1S77, by Scribner & Co.] 


(A Story of the Middle Ages.) 

By the Author of "Chronicles of the Schonberg-Cotta Family. 


In those old days, in that old city, they called 
he cathedral — and they thought it — the house of 
"iod. The cathedral was the Father's house for 
11, and therefore it was loved and honored, and 
nriched with lavish treasures of wealth and work, 
eyond any other father's house. 

The cathedral was the Father's house, and, 
nerefore, close to its gates might nestle the poor 
wellings of the poor, — too poor to find a shelter 
nywhere besides ; because the central life and joy 
f the house of God was the suffering, self-sacri- 
cing Son of Man ; and dearer to Him, now and 
irever. as when He was on earth, was the feeblest 
'nd most fallen human creature He had redeemed 
lan the most glorious heavenly constellation of 
le universe He had made. 

And so it happened that when Berthold, the 
one-carver, died, Magdalis, his young wife, and 
er two children, then scarcely more than babes, 

ottlieb and little Lenichen, were suffered to make 
leir home in the little wooden shed which had 
ace sheltered a hermit, and which nestled into 
le recess close to the great western gate of the 

Thus, while inside from the loft)- aisles pealed 
■rth, night and day, the anthems of the choir, 

ose outside, night and day, rose also, even more 
irely to God, the sighs of a sorrowful woman and 
le cries of little children whom all her toil could 

irdly supply with bread. Because, He hears the 

eblest wail of want, though it comes not from a 

we or even from a harmless sparrow, but a young 
Vol. V.— 12. 

raven. And He does not heed the sweetest an- 
them of the fullest choir, if it is a mere pomp of 
sound. Because, while the best love of His meanest 
creatures is precious to Him, the second-best of His 
loftiest creatures is intolerable to Him. He heeds 
the shining of the drops of dew and the rustling of 
the blades of grass. But from creatures who can 
love he cannot accept the mere outside offering 
of creatures which can only make a pleasant sound. 

All this, or such as this, the young mother Mag- 
dalis taught her babes as they could bear it. 

For they needed such lessons. 

The troubles of the world pressed on them very 
early, in the shape little children can understand — 
little hands and feet nipped with frost, hunger and 
darkness and cold. 

Not that the citizens of that city were hypocrites, 
singing the praises of God, whilst they let His 
dear Lazaruses vainly crave at His gates for their 

But Magdalis was very tender and timid, and a 
little proud ; proud not for herself, but for her 
husband and his babes. And she was also feeble 
in health. She was an orphan herself, and she had 
married, against the will of her kindred in a far-off 
city, the young stone-carver, whose genius they did 
not appreciate, whose labor and skill had made life 
so rich and bright to them while he lived, and 
whose early death had left them all so desolate. 

For his dear sake, she would not complain. For 
herself it had been easier to die, and for his babes 
she would not bring the shame of beggary on 
them. Better for them to enter into this life 




maimed of strength, she thought, by meager food, 
than tainted with the taint of beggary. 

Rather, she thought, would their father himself 
have seen them go hungry to bed than deserve 
that the fingers of other children should be pointed 
scornfully at them as "the little beggars by the 
church door," the door of the church in which she 
gloried to think there were stones of his carving. 

So she toiled on, carving for sale little devotional 
symbols — crosses, and reliquaries, and lilies and 
lambs — with the skill she had learnt from him, 
and teaching the little ones, as best she could, to 
love and work and suffer. Teaching them only, 
perhaps, not quite enough to hope. For the lamp 
of hope burnt low in her own heart, and therefore 
her patience, not being enough the patience of 
hope, lacked something of sweetness. It never 
broke downward into murmurs, but it too seldom 
soared upward into praise. 

So it happened that one frosty night, about 
Christmas-tide, little Gottlieb lay awake, very 
hungry, on the ledge of the wall, covered with 
straw, which served him for a bed. 

It had once been the hermit's bed. And very 
narrow Gottlieb thought it must have been for the 
hermit, for more than once he had been in peril of 
falling over the side, in his restless tossings. He 
supposed the hermit was too good to be restless, or 
perhaps too good for the dear angels to think it 
good for him to be hungry, as they evidently did 
think it good for Gottlieb and Lenichen, or they 
would be not good angels at all, not even as kind 
as the ravens which took the bread to Elijah when 
they were told. For the dear Heavenly Father 
had certainly told the angels always to take care of 
little children. 

The more. Gottlieb lay awake and tossed and 
thought, the further off the angels seemed. 

For, all the time, under the pillow lay one pre- 
cious crust of bread, the last in the house until his 
mother should buy the loaf to-morrow. 

He had saved it from his supper in an impulse 
of generous pity for his little sister, who so often 
awoke, crying with hunger, and woke his poor 
mother, and would not let her go to sleep again. 

He had thought how sweet it would be, when 
Lenichen awoke the next morning, to appear sud- 
denly, as the angels do, at the side of the bed 
where she lay beside her mother, and say : 

" Dear Lenichen ! See, God has sent you this 
bit of bread as a Christmas gift." 

For the next day was Christmas Eve. 

This little plan made Gottlieb so happy that at 
first it felt as good to him as eating the bread. 

But the happy thought, unhappily, did not long 
content the hungry animal part of him, which 
craved, in spite of him, to be filled ; and, as the 

night went on, he was sorely tempted to eat the 
precious crust — his very own crust — himself. 

" Perhaps it was ambitious of me, after all," he 
said to himself, "to want to seem like a blessed 
angel, a messenger of God, to Lenichen. Perhaps, 
too, it would not be true. Because, after all, it 
would not be exactly God who sent the crust, but 
only me." 

And with the suggestion, the little hands which 
had often involuntarily felt for the crust, brought it 
to the hungry little mouth. 

But at that moment it opportunely happened 
that his mother made a little moan in her sleep, 
which half awakened Lenichen, who murmured, 
sleepily, " Little mother, mother, bread ! " 

Whereupon, Gottlieb blushed at his own un- 
generous intention, and resolutely pushed back the 
crust under the pillow. And then he thought it 
must certainly have been the devil who had tempted 
him to eat, and he tried to pray. 

He prayed the "Our Father" quite through, 
kneeling up softly in bed, and lingering fondly, but 
not very hopefully, on the " Give us our daily 

And then again he fell into rather melancholy 
reflections how very often he had prayed that same 
prayer and been hungry, and into distracting spec- 
ulations how the daily bread could come, until at 
last he ventured to add this bit of his own to his 
prayers : 

" Dear, holy Lord Jesus, you were once a little 
child, and know what it feels like. If Lenicher 
and I are not good enough for you to send us!j 
bread by the blessed angels, do send us some byl 
the poor ravens. We would not mind at all, if the) 
came from you, and were your ravens, and brough 
us real bread. And if it is wrong to ask, pleasi 
not to be displeased, because I am such a littlt 
child, and I don't know better, and I want to go t< 
sleep ! " ■ 

Then Gottlieb lay down again, and turned hi' 
face to the wall, where he knew the picture of thi j 
Infant Jesus was, and forgot his troubles and fell 

The next morning he was awaked, as so often 
by Lenichen's little bleat ; and he rose triumph 
antly, and took his crust to her bedside. 

Lenichen greeted him with a wistful little smile 
and put up her face for a kiss ; but her receptioi 
of the crust was somewhat disappointing. 

She wailed a little because it was "hard am 
dry," and when Gottlieb moistened it with a fe\ 
drops of water, she took it too much, he felt, as 
mere common meal, a thing of course, and he 
natural right. 

He had expected that, in some way, the hungr 
hours it had cost him would have been kneade 



into it, and made it a kind of heavenly manna 
for her. 

To him it had meant hunger, and heroism, and 
sleepless hours of endurance. It seemed strange 
that to Lenichen it should seem nothing more than 
a hard, dry, common crust. 
; But to the mother it was much more. 

She understood all ; and, because she understood 
:so much, she said little. 

She only smiled, and said he looked more than 

;ver like his father ; and as he sat musing rather 

:;adly while she was dressing, and Lenichen had 

;allen asleep again, she pointed to the little peace- 

1 "ul sleeping face, the flaxen hair curling over the 

limpled arm, and she said : 

1 " That is thy thanks — just that the little one is 
I lappy. The dear Heavenly Father cares more, I 
hink, for such thanks than for any other ; just to 
nee the flowers grow, just to hear the birds sing to 
heir nestlings, just to see His creatures good and 
nappy, because of His gifts. Those are about the 
ticst thanks for Him and for us." 

But Gottlieb looked up inquiringly. 
I "Yet He likes us to say ' Thank you,' too? Did 
t ou not say all the Church services, all the beauti- 
i il cathedral itself, is just the people's ' Thank you' 
.0 God? Are we not going to church just to say 

Thank you,' to-day?" 
f " Yes, darling," she said. " But the 'thank you' 
' 'e mean to say is worth little unless it is just the 
clossom and fragrance of the love and content 
ilways in the heart. God cares infinitely for our 
wing Him, and loves us to thank Him if we do. 
le does not care at all for the thanks without the 
(ive, or without the content." 

\ And as she spoke these words, Mother Magdalis 
: as preaching a little sermon to herself also, which 
lade her eyes moisten and shine. 
:, So she took courage, and contrived to persuade 
le children and herself that the bread-and-water 
reakfast that Christmas Eve morning had some- 
ling quite festive about it. 

And when they had finished with a grace which 

ottlieb sang, and Lenichen lisped after him, she 

r Id him to take the little sister on his knee and 

i ng through his songs and hymns, while she 

rayed herself in the few remnants of holiday 

, ess left her. 

; And as she cleaned and arranged the tiny room, 
:r heart was lighter than it had been for a long 
, ne. 

" I ought to be happy," she said to herself, " with 
; usic enough in my little nest to fill a church." 
When Gottlieb had finished his songs, and was 
ginning them over again, there was a knock at 
e door, and the face of old Hans, the dwarf, ap- 
ared at the door, as he half opened it. 

"A good Christmas to thee and thy babes, 
Mother Magdalis ! Thy son is born indeed with a 
golden spoon in his mouth," croaked old Hans in 
his hoarse, guttural voice. 

The words grated on Magdalis. Crooked Hans' 
jokes were apt to be as crooked as his temper and 
his poor limbs, and to give much dissatisfaction, 
hitting on just the sore points no one wanted to 
be touched. 

She felt tempted to answer sharply, but the sweet 
Christmas music had got into her heart, and she 
only said, with tears starting to her eyes: 

" If he was, neighbor, all the gold was lost and 
buried long ago." 

" Not a bit of it ! " rejoined Hans. " Did n't I 
hear the gold ring this very instant ? The lad has 
gold in his mouth, I say ! Give him to me, and 
you shall see it before night." 

She looked up reproachfully, the tears fairly fall- 
ing at what she thought such a cruel mockery from 
Hans, who knew her poverty, and had never had 
from her or hers the rough words he was too used 
to from every one. 

" The golden days are over for me," was all she 

" Nay ! They have yet to begin," he replied. 
" Your Berthold left more debtors than you know, 
Frau Magdalis. And old Hans is one of them. 
And Hans never forgets a debt, black or white. 
Let the lad come with me, I say. I know the 
choir-master at the cathedral. And I know he 
wants a fine high treble just such as thy Gottlieb's, 
and will give anything for it. For if he does not 
find one, the Cistercians at the new convent will 
draw away all the people, and we shall have no 
money for the new organ. They have a young 
Italian, who sings like an angel, there ; and the 
young archduchess is an Italian, and is wild about 
music, and lavishes her gifts wherever she finds it 

Magdalis looked perplexed and troubled. 

" To sell the child's voice seems like selling part 
of himself, neighbor," she said at length; "and 
to sell God's praises seems like selling one's own 

" Well, well ! Those are thy proud burgher 
notions," said Hans, a little nettled. " If the 
Heavenly Father pleases to give thee and the little 
ones a few crumbs for singing His matins and 
evensong, it is no more than He does for the 
robins, or, for that matter, for the very ravens, 
such as me, that croak to Him with the best voice 
they have." 

At these words, Gottlieb, who had been listening 
very attentively, gently set little Lenichen down, 
and, drawing close to Hans, put his little hand con- 
fidingly in his. 




" I will go with neighbor Hans, mother ! " he 
said, decisively. " The dear Lord himself has sent 

"Thou speakcst like a prophet," said the mother, 
smiling tenderly at his oracular manner, ' ' a prophet 
and a king in one. Hast thou had a vision ? Is 
thy will indeed the law of the land ? " 

"Yes, mother," he said, coloring, "the dear 
Lord Jesus has made it quite plain. I asked Him, 
if we were not good enough for Him to send us an 
angel, to send us one of His ravens, and He has 
sent us Hans ! " 

Hans laughed, but not the grim, hoarse laugh 
which was habitual to him, and which people com- 
pared to the croaking of a raven ; it was a hearty, 
open laugh, like a child's, and he said : 

" Let God's raven lead thee, then, my lad, and 
the mother shall see if we don't bring back the 
bread and meat." 

" I did not ask for meat," said Gottlieb, gravely, 
" only for bread." 

"The good God is wont to give more than we 
either desire or deserve," croaked Hans, "when 
He sets about giving at all." 


There was no time to be lost. 

The services of the day would soon begin, and 
Hans had set his heart on Gottlieb's singing that 
very day in the cathedral. 

The choir-master's eyes sparkled as he listened 
to the boy ; but he was an austere man, and would 
not utter a word to make the child think himself of 

"Not bad raw material," he said, "but very 
raw. I suppose thou hast never before sung a note 
to any one who understood music ? " 

"Only for the mother and the little sister," the 
child replied in a low, humbled tone, beginning to 
fear the raven would bring no bread after all, " and 
sometimes in the litanies and the processions." 

" Sing no more for babes and nurses, and still 
less among the beggars in the street-processions," 
pronounced the master, severely. " It strains and 
vulgarizes the tone. And, with training, I don't 
know but that, after all, we might make something 
of thee — in time, in time." 

Gottlieb's anxiety mastered his timidity, and he 
ventured to say : 

" Gracious lord ! if it is a long time, how can 
we all wait? I thought it would be to-day! The 
mother wants the bread to-day." 

Something in the child's earnest face touched the 
master, and he said, more gently : 

" I did not say you might not begin to-day. You 
must begin this hour, this moment. Too much 
time has been lost already." 


And at once he set about the first lesson, scold- 
ing and growling about the child setting his teeth 
like a dog, and mincing his words like a fine lady, 
till poor Gottlieb's hopes more than once sank 
very low. 

But, at the end of a quarter of an hour's prac- 
tice, the artist in the choir-master entirely over- 
came the diplomatist. 

He behaved like a madman. He took the chile 
in his arms and hugged him, like a friendly bear ; 
he set him on the table and made him sing one 
phrase again and again, walking round and rounc 
him, and rubbing his hands and laughing wit! 
delight; and, finally, he seized him and bore hirr 
in triumph to the kitchen, and said to his house;«i 
keeper : 

" Ursula, bring out the finest goose and the bes 
preserves and puddings you have. We must feas 
the whole choir, and, may be, the dean and chap 
ter. The archduke and the young archduchess wil 
be here at Easter. But we shall be ready for them 
Those beggarly Cistercians have n't a chance. Th 
lad has the voice of an angel, and the ear — the ea 
— well, an ear as good as my own." 

" The child may well have the voice of an angel, 
scolded old Ursula; "he is like to be among th 
angels soon enough." 

For the hope, and the fear, and the joy ha 
quite overcome the child, enfeebled as he was b 
meager fare ; his lips were quite pale, and hi 

Moreover, the last order of the choir-master ha 1 
not been quite re-assuring to him. The fat goos 
arid the puddings were good, indeed ; but he woul I 
have preferred his mother and Lenichen beinj 
feasted in his honor, rather than the choir and tb 

And besides, though little more than seven yea: 
old, he was too much of a boy quite to enjoy h j 
position on the master's shoulder. He felt it tc';'' 
babyish to be altogether honorable to the protect! 
of Lenichen and incipient bread-winner of tl 
family. And, therefore, he was relieved when 1 
found himself once more safely on the ground. 

But when Ursula set before him a huge plate 1 
bread and meat, his manly composure all but ga' 
way. It was more of an approach to a feast th; 
any meal he had ever participated in, and he w.l 
nearly choked with repressed tears of gratitude. 

It was so evident now that Hans was altogeth 
an orthodox and accredited raven ! 

At first, as the child sat mute and wonderii 
before the repast, with a beautiful look of joy ai 
prayer in his blue eyes, Ursula thought he was sa 
ing his grace, and respected his devotion. But 
the moments passed on, and still he did not attem 
to eat, she became impatient. 





1 "There is a time for everything," she murmured, 
.at length. "That will do for thy grace! Now 
quick to the food ! Thou canst finish the grace, 
if thou wilt, in music, in the church by and by." 
But then the child took courage, and said : 
" The ravens — that is, the good God — surely do 
not mean all this for me. Dear, gracious lady, let 
me run with the plate to the mother and Lenichen ; 
and I will be back again in two minutes, and sing 
all day, if the master likes." 

seemed to Mother Magdalis when Gottlieb re- 
entered the hermit's cell, under the stately convoy 
of the choir-master's housekeeper, and with food 
enough to feed the frugal little household for a 

The two women greeted each other ceremoni- 
ously and courteously, as became two German 
housewives of good burgher stock. 

" The little lad has manners worthy of a burgo- 
master," said Ursula. " We shall see him with the 


Ursula was much moved at the child's filial love, 

-nd also at his politeness. 
" The little one has discrimination," she said to 

jerself. " One can see he is of a good stock. He 

1 "cognizes that I am no peasant, but the daughter 
a good burgher house." 

. And, in spite of the remonstrances of her master, 

.ie insisted on giving the lad his way. 
" I will accompany him, myself," said she. 
And, without further delay or parley, she walked 
f, under the very eyes of the master, with the 
)y, and also with a considerable portion of his 
vn dinner, in addition to the plate she had already 
t before Gottlieb. 

A very joyful and miraculous intervention it 

gold chain and the fur robes yet, — his mother a 
proud woman." 

With which somewhat worldly benediction, she 
left the little family to themselves, conjuring Gott- 
lieb to return in less than an hour, for the master 
was not always as manageable as this morning. 

And when they were alone, Gottlieb was not 
ashamed to hide his tears on his mother's heart. 

"See, darling mother!" he said, "the dear 
Savior did send the raven ! Perhaps, one day, 
He will make us good enough for Him to send the 

Then the simple family all knelt down and 
thanked God from their hearts, and Gottlieb added 
one especial bit of his own of praise and prayer 
for his kind Hans, of whom, on account of his 




grim face and rough voice, he had stood in some 

" Forgive me, dear Lord Jesus," he said, "that 
I did not know how good he was ! " 

And when they had eaten their hasty Christmas 
feast, and the mother was smoothing his hair and 
making the best of his poor garments, Gottlieb 
said, looking up gravely in her face : 

" Who knows, mother, if Hans is only a raven 
now, that the good God may not make him, his 
very self, the angel ? " 

" Perhaps God is making Hans into the angel 
even now," replied the mother. 

And she remembered for a long time the angelic 
look of love and devotion in the child's eyes. 

For she knew very well the cathedral choir was 
no angelic host. 

She knew she was not welcoming her boy that: 
morning to a haven, but launching him on a voyage 
of many perils. But she knew, also, that it is only 
by such perils, and through such voyages, that 
men, that saints, are made. 

(To be contimtcd.) 

By C. W. 

One morning, last August, Jimmie Wood was 
sitting on the gate-post making a willow whistle, 
when a remarkable wagon, drawn by a lean, gray 
horse, came up over the hill. The wagon looked 
like a big black box with a window in it. In front 
was a man driving, and this man seemed rather 
peculiar too. He had a long, pointed mustache 
and. very curly hair. He was not a cigar and candy 
peddler, nor a patent medicine man, nor a machine 
agent, for Jim could recognize any of these in a 
minute. The curly-haired man stopped directly in 
front of the gate. 

" Good morning," said he. 

" Morning," answered Jim, shutting up his knife. 

" My name 's Leatherbee," continued the cuily- 
haired man. 

" Is it ? " said Jim, unconcernedly, and then slid 
off the gate-post and started for the house. 

"Hi boy 1" 

Jim turned quickly. 

" Ask your pa whether he would n't like to have 
his house took ! " called out the stranger. 

Jim nodded, and went across the grass-plot 
meditating upon what the man meant by propos- 
ing to take the house. His father was in the sit- 
ting-room writing a letter. 

" Papa," said Jim, leaning up against the table, 
" there 's a man out there in the road that wants to 
take the house." 

" Wants to take the house ! " exclaimed Mr. 
Wood, making a blot in his astonishment. 

" Yes," continued Jim, " and he has the fun- 
niest-looking wagon you ever saw in your life." 

"Ah!" said Mr. Wood, "I understand now; 

he wants to take some photographs, I suppose 
Well, tell him I don't want any," and Mr. Wooi 
went on with his letter, while Jim proceeded acros 
the front yard again. He noticed his pony over ii 
the orchard. A thought struck him, and h 
wheeled around and went back in the sitting-roor 
again in some haste. 

" Papa," said he, " can't I have the pori 
taken ? " 

" She wont stand still long enough," answere 
Mr. Wood, sealing up his letter. 

" But, papa, can't the man try ? " pleaded Jim. 

Mr. Wood thought for a minute. Then said : 

"Yes. He may try." 

Jim galloped across the front yard in a second. 

" Well?" said the curly-haired man, raising h 

" Papa does n't want the house taken," said Jin 
with some dignity. " But can you take my por 
over there in the orchard ? " 

The man looked at Baby, who was calm 
crunching harvest apples under the trees. 

" Purty little beast," he said, getting out of h 
wagon and leading his horse up to the fence. 

"Can you take her?" asked Jim again, an , 

" Course I kin," answered Mr. Leatherbee. I'M 
then tied his horse to the fence and lifted his a 
paratus out of the wagon, and arranged it in til 
orchard. The pony immediately kicked up h 
heels and trotted off to a far-away corner. M 
Wood came out of the house and talked to t 
photographer, while Jim, after chasing around ) 
some time trying to catch the pony, went to t 



: stable and put a quart of oats in a measure. As 

soon as Baby spied that round, yellow box under 

Jim's arm, she trotted up to him with a gentle 

neigh. He caught her by the fore-top and led her 

; to where Mr. Leatherbee was standing. 

" Jest put her there," said he, pointing to a place 
under a big tree. Jim led her to the place and 
1 held her while Mr. Leatherbee made all his ar- 
1 rangements. 
i " Now we 're ready," said he. 

Baby looked pleased at this announcement, but 
waved her tail wildly. 
Mr. Wood smiled. 

"Tell Baby to keep perfectly quiet," said he to 
Jim, " and ask her to lower her chin a little, cast a 

camera, and looked at his watch for some breath- 
less minutes. Then he slipped the velvet on again, 
and said : 

"That's all right." 

Jim drew a long sigh. 

"Will it be good, do you think?" he asked, 

" Not a doubt of it," said Mr. Leatherbee, in 
such a cheerful tone that Jim immediately made 
up his mind that the pony should have an extra 
quart of oats all winter for her fine behavior. He 
expected the picture would be done right away, 
but Mr. Leatherbee said he would have to send the 
plates to Poughkeepsie to his partner, and the pict- 
ures would come soon by the mail. Mr. Leather- 


ileasant expression around her eyes, and breathe 

Mr. Leatherbee laughed at this. So did Jim ; 
; 3r it was exactly what the photographer always 

sld him when he had his picture taken. 
) The pony thought this all very pleasant, but she 
ranted the oats, and, consequently, was trying to 
' irust her nose through Jim's back in her efforts to 

et at the measure. 

' The photographer looked despairing. 
" Here, I '11 fix it," said Mr. Wood, stepping up 

) the pony. "No, Jim, stand back; Mr. Leather- 

ee, are you ready ? " 
" Yes," answered Mr. Leatherbee, with one 

and on the velvet that covered his camera. 
Mr. Wood poured the oats on the ground and 

t go of the pony's head. For a while Baby 

rabbed the oats up in great haste, but finally she 

ood with her nose to the ground quietly eating. 

Ir. Leatherbee drew away the velvet from the 

bee then put all his apparatus in his wagon again, 
and jogged on as he had come. 

For the next four days Jimmie went to the post- 
office about every two hours. 

" Expectin' a love-letter?" said old Mr. Hallo- 
way, the postmaster. At this all the loafers who 
were sitting on the counter laughed loudly. Jim 
made up his mind that Mr. Halloway was a very 
unpleasant old gentleman, and vowed all sorts of 
threats against him. His revengeful plans melted 
away, however, when Mr. Halloway handed him a 
big envelope, and said: " Here, Bub, yer letter's 

Jim tore it open, and six photographs dropped 
out all alike, all representing Baby eating under a 
tree. He privately showed one to her that after- 
noon. She evidently thought it very handsome, 
for she delicately chewed it up out of Jim's hand, to 
his great amazement. He says nothing about this 
when telling how the pony's picture was taken. 




By Fleta Forrester. 

MERRY MlKE, from his door, bounded out to his play, 
With his head in his hat, on a blustering day ; 
When the wind, of a sudden, came frolicking down, 
And lifted Mike's hat from his little round crown. 
He-he ! " said Mike, and he said " Ho-ho ! 
Do you call that funny, I 'd like to know ? " 

Then he made up his mind to return to the house, 
But the merry wind pushed itself under his blouse ; 
And it roared and it roared, as he puffed and he ran, 
Till it just knocked over this queer little man. 
Ho-ho ! " said Mike, and he said " He-he ! 
I '11 get up again, Old Wind, you '11 see ! " 



Then the wind, with a flurry of bluster and racket, 

Went crowding and crowding right under his jacket ; 

And it lifted him off from his two little feet, 

And it carried him bodily over the street. 

Mike laughed " He-he !" and he laughed " Ho-ho ! 

Do you call this flying, I 'd like to know ? " 

But the wind with its antics was plainly not through, 

For fiercer and fiercer and fiercer it blew, 

Till making one effort of fury intense 

It carried Mike neatly right over a fence. 

Mike said "Ho-ho!" and "He-he!" together, 

Do you think I am naught but a little hen's-feather ? ' 

1 7 8 



He met there a somewhat discouraged old cow, 
That had blown thither too, though she failed to see how; 
And he smiled and said, " Make yourself easy, my friend — 
Only keep your mind quiet, and things '11 soon mend ! " 
And he laughed " He-he ! " and he laughed " Ho-ho ! 
The wind is just playing, old cow, you know ! " 

As he scampered off home, what above should he see 
But the roof of a shed, that had lodged in a tree ; 
So he laughed and he laughed, till his sides they did ache, 
For he said, "This is better nor wedding nor wake!" 
And he roared " Ho-ho ! " and he roared " He-he ! " 
For he was as tickled as tickled could be. 



" That boy," say the terrified folks of the town, 

" He would laugh just the same if the sky tumbled down ! " 

" Indeed, an' I would," fancied Mike, with a grin, 

" For I might get a piece with a lot of stars in ! " 

And he chuckled " He-he ! " and he chuckled " Ho-ho ! " 

The very idea delighted him so ! 

His father complained to the priest, " Now, I say, 

Mike never stops laughing, by night or by day!" 

Let him laugh," spoke the priest: "he will change by and by, 

And 't is better to laugh than to grumble or cry ! 

It 's the way with the lad ; let him laugh, if he like ; 

And be glad you 've a son that 's as merry as Mike ! " 

i So 



By Susan A. Brown. 

The longest visit that we read of in modern 
days was one which Dr. Isaac Watts made at 
Lord Abney's in the Isle of Wight. He went to 
spend a fortnight, but they made him so happy 
that he remained a beloved and honored guest for 
forty years. 

Few of us would care to make so long a visit as 
that, but it might be worth the while for us all to 
try and learn the secret of making ourselves agree- 
able and welcome guests. To have "a nice time" 
when one is visiting is delightful, but to leave be- 
hind us a pleasant impression is worth a great deal 
more. . 

An agreeable guest is a title which any one may 
be proud to deserve. A great many people, with 
the best intentions and the kindest hearts, never 
receive it, simply because they have never con- 
sidered the subject, and really do not know how to 
make their stay in another person's home a pleas- 
ure instead of an inconvenience. If you are one 
of these thoughtless ones, you may be sure that, 
although your friends are glad to see you happy, 
and may enjoy your visit on that account, your 
departure will be followed with a sigh of relief, as 
the family settle down to their usual occupations, 
sa)ing, if not thinking, that they are glad the visit 
is over. 

A great many different qualities and habits go to 
make up the character of one whom people are 
always glad to see, and these last must be proved 
while we are young, if we expect to wear them 
gracefully. A young person whose presence in the 
house is an inconvenience and a weariness at fif- 
teen, is seldom a welcome visitor in after-life. 

The two most important characteristics of a 
guest are tact and observation, and these will lead 
you to notice and do just what will give pleasure to 
your friends in their different opinions and ways of 
living. Apply in its best sense the maxim — 
" When you are in Rome, do as the Romans do." 

Unless you have some good reason for not doing 
so, let your friends know the day, and, if possible, 
the hour when you expect to arrive. Surprises are 
very well in their way, but there are few households 
in which it is quite convenient to have a friend 
drop in without warning for a protracted visit. If 
they know that you are coming, they will have the 
pleasure of preparing for you and looking forward 
to your arrival, and you will not feel that you are 
disturbing any previous arrangements which they 
have made for the day. 

Let your friends know, if possible, soon after you 
arrive, about how long you mean to stay with them, 
as they might not like to ask the question, and 
would still find it convenient to know whether your 
visit is to have a duration of three days or three 
weeks. Take with you some work that you have 
already begun, or some book that you are reading, 
that you may be agreeably employed when your 
hostess is engaged with her own affairs, and not be 
sjtting about idle, as if waiting to be entertained, 
when her time is necessarily taken up with some- 
thing else. Make her feel that, for a small part at 
least of every day, no one needs to have any re- 
sponsibility about amusing you. 

A lady who is charming as a guest and as a 
hostess once said to me: " I never take a nap in 
the afternoon when I am at home, but I do when 
I am visiting, because I know what a relief it has 
sometimes been to me to have company lie down 
for a little while, after dinner." 

Try, without being too familiar, to make your- 
self so much like one of the family that no one 
shall feel you to be in the way ; and, at the same 
time, be observant of those small courtesies and 
kindnesses which all together make up what the 
world agrees to call good manners. 

Regulate your hours of rising and retiring by the 
customs of the house. Do not keep your friends 
sitting up until later than usual, and do not be 
roaming about the house an hour or two before 
breakfast. If you choose to rise at an early hour, 
remain in your own room until near breakfast-time, 
unless you are very sure that your presence in th( 
parlor will not be unwelcome. Write in large let 
ters, in a prominent place in your mind, "Bl'ij 
PUNCTUAL." A visitor has no excuse for keepinj . 
a whole family waiting, and it is unpardonabl 
negligence not to be prompt at the table. Herei |j 
a place to test good manners, and any manifesta ! i 
tion of ill-breeding here will be noticed and remem 
bered. Do not be too ready to express your like 
and dislikes for the various dishes before you. Th 
wife of a certain United States Senator once visil I i 
ing acquaintances at some distance from her nativ 
wilds, made a lasting impression upon the famil 
by remarking at the breakfast-table that " sh 
should starve before she would eat mush," an 
that she "never heard of cooking mutton befoi ; 
she came East." 

If you are tempted to go to the other extrenn 
and sacrifice truth to politeness, read Mrs. Opie 

i8 7 8.] 



" Tale of Potted Sprats," and you will not be likely 
to be insincere again. 

It is well to remember that some things which 

seem of very little importance to you may make an 

unpleasant impression upon others, in consequence 

of a difference in early training. The other clay 

f'two young ladies were heard discussing a gcntle- 

fman who had a great many pleasant qualities. 

F" Yes," said one, "he is vsry handsome, but he 

[does eat pie with his knife." Take care that no 

fitrifle of that kind is recalled when people are 

'speaking of you. 

Keep your own room in order, and do not scat- 
ter your belongings all over the house. If your 
"riends are orderly, it will annoy them to see your 
; hings out of place ; and if they are not, their own 
iisorder will be enough without adding jours. 

Make up your mind to be entertained with what 
Is designed to entertain you. If your friends invite 
:ou to join them in, an excursion, express your 
i' Measure and readiness to go, and do not act as 
' hough you were conferring a favor instead of re- 
ceiving one. No visitors are so wearisome as those 
vho do not meet half way whatever proposals are 
: nade for their pleasure. Be contented to amuse 
'ourself quietly in the house, or to join in any out- 
' ide gayetics to which you are invited, and show by 
"'our manner that you enjoy both. 

If games are proposed, do not say that you will 

lot play, or " would rather look on ; " but join with 

!he rest, and do the best you can. Never let a 

i oolish feeling of pride, lest you should not make so 

;ood an appearance as the others, prevent your 


. If you are not skillful, you will at least show that 
ou are good-natured, and that you do not think 
^ ourself modest when you are only proud. 

If you have any skill in head or fingers, you will 

lever have a better time to use it than when you 

re visiting; only, whatever you do, do well, and 

to not urge your offers of assistance after you see 

hat it is not really desired. Mrs. Poyser, who is 

I ne of George Eliot's best characters, says : "Folks 

s have no mind to be o' use have allays the luck 

"3 be out o' the road when there 's anything to be 

one." If you do not find any place to be useful, 

,. ou may be tolerably sure that it is your own 


I heard a gentleman say of a young lady whose 
■ mall affectations were undergoing a sharp criti- 
ism, " Well, whatever you may say of her, she is 
ertainly more ready to make herself useful than 
ny other young lady who visits here. If I lose my 
lasses, or mislay the newspaper, or want a stitch 
iken, she is always ready." And I shall never 
>rget the impression which a young lady made 
pon me, as I saw her sit idly rocking backward 

and forward, complacently surveying the young 
friends she was visiting as they were hurrying to 
finish peeling a basket of peaches. 

While visiting, remember that you meet many 
who are strangers to you, and do not seem to you 
especially attractive, but who may still be dear and 
valued friends of the family; and be cautious about 
making criticisms upon them. Be friendly and 
cordial toward those whom you meet, and try to 
show that you are ready to like them. Whatever 
peculiarities you may observe, either in the family 
or its guests, which strike you as amusing, be care- 
ful that you do not sin against the law of love, by 
repeating little things, to their disadvantage, which 
you have found out while you were admitted to the 
sanctuary of the home. 

Do not ask questions which people would rather 
not answer, and be careful not to speak of any- 
thing which will bring up painful recollections, or 
be likely to cause unpleasant forebodings. The 
old proverb expresses this in few words: "Never 
mention a rope in the family of a man who has 
been hanged." 

If your own home is in any way better and hand- 
somer than your friends', do not say anything 
which may seem like making invidious compari- 
sons, or allow them to see that you miss any of 
the conveniences to which you have been accus- 

Be careful about making any unnecessary work 
for others, and do not ask even the servants to do 
for you anything which you ought to do for your- 
self. The family had their time filled up before 
you came, and, do what you will, you are an extra 
one, and will make some difference. 

Provide yourself, before you leave home, with 
whatever small supplies you are likely to need, so 
that you need not be borrowing ink, pens, paper, 
envelopes, postage-stamps, etc. 

It may seem unnecessary to speak of the need of 
taking due care of the property of others, but hav- 
ing just seen a young lady leaning forward with 
both elbows upon the open pages of a handsome 
volume which was resting upon her knees, I ven- 
ture to suggest that you do not leave any marred 
wall, or defaced book, or ink-stains, or mark of a 
wet tumbler, to remind your friends of your visit 
long after it has ended. 

Do not forget, when you go away, to express 
your appreciation of the kindness which has been 
shown you, and when you reach home inform your 
friends by letter of your safe arrival. 

If you follow faithfully these few suggestions, you 
will probably be invited to go again ; and if you do 
not thank St. Nicholas for telling you these plain 
truths, perhaps the friends whom you visit will be 
dnlv grateful. 





(Drawn by Miss L. Greenaway.) 

<2/'aend?ny aeiz'tna-?nacaen 
/I'ltA Giew- iJ afeai, tettci. taaen. 

By E. P. W. 

It was all because of Polly, and this was the 
way of it. 

Ma had gone 'cross lots to Aunt Mari's, to stay 
till milking-time, to see the new things Aunt Mari 
had brought from Boston, and Polly and I were 
alone at home. Polly is our hired help, and she is 
Irish, and has got red hair, but she 's as good as 
gold ; and I am Kitty, my Pa's little chatterbox. 

Polly was in the buttery, washing the dinne 
dishes, and I was on the kitchen floor, playing wif 
Queen Victoria, our old yellow cat, trying to teac 
her to stand on her hind-legs and beg, like Johnr 
Dane's dog. But Vic was cross, and would r 
learn ; and when I boxed her ears, she scratchf 
me on my chin, and bounced over my shoulde 
and was off to the barn in less than no time. 


I8 3 

You need n't suppose I cried, because I did n't, 
;or I shall be ten years old next July. I don't ever 
pry any more ; only when I have the earache, and 
hen I can't help it. Except the other day when 
Tom stepped on my Rachel Tryphena, and jammed 
ier forehead in, I did. But Tom 's going to buy 
er a new head with the money he gets from sell- 
lg Jake Lawrence some of his guinea-hen's eggs, 
j I don't mind about that now. I was just think- 
lg how much better I should feel if I 'd had a 
iliance to pull old Vic's tail, when Polly called, 

What yer doin', honey ! " and said if I would 

line and wipe the plates for her, that by and by, 

hen she had " set the sponge " for to-morrow's 

iking, she would take her sewing and sit under 

; ie maple-tree, and tell me a story. 

I I like Polly's stories, and I like wiping dishes, 
1,0, sometimes — and I can do them first-rate, if 

i'm not but nine years old, and never let one drop, 
either ! So Polly gave me a towel, and we both 
iped with all our might and main, and 'most as 
uck as you can say Jack Robinson, we had them 
led in shining rows on the kitchen dresser. Then 
did twelve and a half rows on the suspenders I 
is knitting for Pa's birthday, while Polly finished 
! e rest of her work. 
About four o'clock it was all done, and the table 

I I for supper, and everything; so Polly got her 
:edle and thread, and the pink calico she was 

' aking into an apron, and we went out through 
1 e front entry. 
As we were passing the closet door, I saw Pa's 
w green umbrella, that he had bought when he 
.s in town the day before, hanging inside, and I 
DUght it would be a good thing for us to carry 
out with us, because the sun was so piping hot 
it afternoon ; so I asked Polly if we might n't. 
e said, " To be shure, darlint," and reached it 
u'li for me. 

Vou know our big maple-tree grows close by the 
nt gate, and stretches its branches all around, 
oss the fence and into the road ; and it 's always 
■ >1 under it, no matter how hot the sun shines 
' :ry where else. Polly settled herself on the bench 
; the foot of the tree, and I climbed up and sat 
• the gate-post, where I could see along the road 
; far as the turning by Deacon Stiles's, and clear 
1 he five-acre lot, where Tom and Jed were hoe- 
i corn. 

^Tlien Polly sewed, and told a story about a 
1 utiful maiden in a lonely tower, and an old 
\. ishee that went about nights, howling, and 
1 >cking at folks' windows. 

ind she talked about when she was a little girl 
i Ireland, and how she and her sisters and Pat 
1 loney used to wade together in the river, that 
1 , n't so very much bigger than our " crick." 

And then she folded her hands on her work, and 
gazed away into the lower meadow, where we could 
spy a spot of white moving against the green, that 
was Pat's shirt, with Pat inside of it, mowing, and 
began to tell what a fine "b'y" Pat was (Aunt 
Mari's Pat is the one), and how he had raked and 
scraped and gone without things ever since he had 
been in America, so as to save enough money to 
buy a snug little home over here for his old mother, 
and get her everything she wants before she dies. 

But just as Polly was saying that she was laying 
by her money, too, and that when the old woman 
had come she had promised to go and live with 
them, all at once I heard an awful racket, and 
looked toward the road, and oh cricky ! what do 
you think I saw ? Tearing round Deacon Stiles's 
corner, lickety-split, was a span of horses and a 
buggy, with the reins dragging in the dust, and 
the buggy spinning from one side of the road to 
the other, and in it was a lady with great wide-open 
eyes, and a face as white as a sheet, clutching a 
little girl in her arms like death ! 

I knew right off that it was the lady who was 
staying at Judge Gillis's, in the village, because I 
had seen her and her little girl in meeting, Sun- 
day ; but my heart flew into my throat and almost 
choked me, and at first I could n't speak a word. 
Then I screamed, " Polly ! Polly /" 

Polly jumped as if she was shot — for, if you will 
believe it, she had been so busy thinking of Pat 
that she had n't heard a sound — and got to the 
gate in two leaps, scattering her spools and scissors 
and pieces of pink calico on the grass. When she 
saw the horses, she stood stock-still for a minute, 
and stared with all her eyes. Then she gave a 
screech like a wild Indian, and stooped and grabbed 
Pa's umbrella from where I had thrown it on the 
ground, and rushing into the middle of the road, 
she opened and shut it as fast as she could work 
her arms, and shouted as loud as she could yell ! 

At that the horses slacked up a bit. The road is 
pretty narrow, and they did n't seem to know how 
to get past the frightful-looking creature that was 
blocking their way of a sudden, with a big green 
thing flippety-flopping before her. 

Anyhow, they went slower and slower, till they 
got to the beginning of our fence, when they tried 
to turn. Then Polly dropped the umbrella, and 
ran and caught them by the badles, and brought 
them to a dead stop. 

They were shaking from top to toe, and their 
glossy black breasts were streaked and spotted with 
foam. Polly stroked and patted their necks, and 
said, "Be aisy now, me b'ys — be aisy ! " and led 
them to the hitching-post and made them fast. 
Then she lifted out the little girl, whose beautiful 
sky-blue hat was all smashed in at the crown, and 

1 84 



taking the poor lady in her arms as tender as 
though she was a baby, sat her on the bench under 
the maple. The lady lay back so white and still 
that I thought she was going to faint, like Miss 
Clarissa Lovett, that boarded with us last summer, 
did once, because of Tom's putting a mouse in 
her work-box. 

Polly was dreadfully scart, and fanned her with 
a breadth of her new apron. 

"Run, darlint," said she to me, "run for yer 
life and fetch a dipper of water ! " 

"And, you good, noble girl, but for you wej 

certainly should have been killed," she ended, 
squeezing Polly's hand. 

Polly grew as red as fire, and said she " must be| 
afther a-seein' about supper." 

At that moment Ma came in the kitchen-wav 
and, hearing voices in the sitting-room, walked in 
very much surprised, because the sitting-room was 
generally kept shut, on account of the flies and the 
new window-shades. 

She was more surprised on hearing what had 



But the lady smiled, and said : " No, don't, my 
dear. I shall be better presently." 

And sure enough she was, and in a little while 
she let Polly help her to the house ; and when she 
had drunk a tumbler of water, and had lain on the 
sitting-room lounge for a spell, she appeared as 
smart as ever. 

The horses were some new ones of Judge Gillis's, 
she said, and were very skittish. The judge was 
going to drive her to Mrs. Colonel Givens's, a mile 
beyond the village ; but as he was stepping into the 
buggy he noticed there was no whip, so he went to 
the barn to get one. While he was gone, the 
horses shied at something and started " two-fortv." 

been going on, and said the lady must stay I 
supper, and that afterward Pa would drive her in 
the village. And she blew the horn for Tom, ai; 
told him to saddle Jerry and ride to Judge Gfllij 
and say to the folks that the lady and little £l 
were all right, and at our house, and that Pa woili 
bring them home after supper. 

Then Ma hurried to the pantry to open somef 
her best preserve-jars, and Polly to the barn to its 
the cows, and I was left to entertain the lady. 

I could n't think how to, exactly, and I thou I 
it would n't do for her to talk, being still so pa< 
so I laid the photograph-album on the corner* 
the table nearest to her, and asked her little rl 



I8 5 

f she did n't want to go to the barn and see my 
r our cunning little Maltese kittens. 

" Yes, I would, dear," said the lady. " Go with 
tithe little girl." 

So she put her hand in mine, and we scampered 
r lown the hill to the barn as tight as we could go. 
p We were not very long getting acquainted when 
L»e were alone together, and the little girl talked as 
nuch as I did. 

I asked her what her name was, and she said, 
: ' Jessie." 

" That 's a real pretty name," said I. " Mine 's 

"Why, is it?" said she. "I've got a cousin 
Kitty. But she is n't near as nice as you are." 

And with that we both laughed, and felt as if we 
vad lived next door to each other all our lives. 

I showed her the four kittens, and she said they 
vere perfectly lovely, but liked most the one with a 
vhite breast and a sweet dot of a white nose. I 
old her she might have it for hers as quick as it 
vas old enough to leave its mother. But she has 
lever sent for it since. I guess she must have for- 

1 When she had seen the guinea-pigs, and Tom's 
■abbits, and fed them all they would eat, we clam- 
lered into the hay-mow, and had a fine time play- 
ng on the hay, till the supper-horn blew. 

There was no end of goodies for supper, but 
iessie's Ma did n't eat scarcely a thing. But she 
ilrank two tumblers of Daisy's milk, and said she 
!>ad n't tasted anything so delicious in a year. But 
'essie and I could eat, and Tom too, — after he had 
;pilt a cup of tea and a pitcher of water, and 
;nocked a piece of pie under the table. He said, 
vhen Jessie and her Ma had gone, that the lady's 
ilack eyes " discombobolated " him so that he had 
nore than half a mind to dive under the table 

Soon as we were through supper, Pa brought up 
he horses (which Tom had driven to the barn, and 
ratered and fed), for it was growing late, and the 
ady wanted to be home before dark. I put on 
.essie's hat for her, and tried to straighten the 
■ rown, and pin on the long white feather, that was 
,'roken in two in the middle. 

" It 's 'most spoilt," 1 said. " Is n't it a pity ? " 
< " Poh ! I don't care," said Jessie. "I've got 
.trree more at home, prettier 'n this." 

" Why-e-e-e ! " said I. " Truly honest ? " 
L "Why, yes! "said Jessie. "How many 've you ?" 
" Just a horrid old Leghorn ! " said I. " And 
:'s been pressed over and over, and the trimmings 
, 'ashed, and I can't bear it ! " 

And I was telling her about the chip jockey hat 
bat Sally Carroll's aunt bought her for a birthday 
resent, when the buggy came to the door. 
Vol. V.— 13. 

" Come, say good-bye to the little girl, my love," 
said the lady, smiling down at me. 

Jessie threw her arms around my neck and whis- 
pered that I was the best girl she ever knew, and 
that she should write me a letter when she got to 
Boston, and hopped in. 

The lady shook hands with Ma, and thanked her 
for being so kind, and then turned to Polly and 
said, softly : 

" You good Polly, I must do something for you. 
Wont you let me ? " — and put her hand in her 

I never saw Polly so mad but once before, and 
that was when Tom chucked Queen Victoria into 
the churn, because she would n't let him have but 
a quarter of an apple-pie to take to school. I mean 
Polly would n't. She walked into the buttery, and 
banged the door behind her as hard as ever she 

The lady did n't say anything, but her cheeks 
were rather pink, and she bent and kissed me as if 
to hide them. Then Pa helped her into the buggy, 
and they drove away. 

The next week, Jed went to the grist-mill, the 
other end of the village, with some buckwheat to 
be ground, and, calling at the post-office coming 
home, he found an express-box from Boston, with 
" Miss Mary Ann Murphy, Redfield, Massachu- 
setts," printed on it in large black letters. He 
knew that was Polly's name, he said ; and never 
having heard tell of but one Mary Ann Murphy in 
these parts, he hoisted it into the wagon. 

Polly was washing by the kitchen-door as he 
rattled in at the gate. 

" Hullo, there ! " he sang out. " Here's a box 
that 's a-wantin' Miss Mary Ann Murphy ! " 

" Git along wid yer nonsinse ! " Polly said, scrub- 
bing at one of Tom's blue gingham shirts. For 
Jed is such a fellow for fooling that you never can 
be sure when to believe him, and Polly thought it 
was a box of starch, or else of soap, that Ma had 
ordered from the grocery, and that Jed was only 
trying to get her to come and lug it into the 
house for him, so he could drive straight on to 
the barn. 

Ma had set me to picking currants for jelly that 
morning, and I was getting over the vegetable- 
garden fence with a heaping pail on each arm when 
Jed spoke. In a minute, one pail was this side of 
the fence, and one was rolling along the path the 
other side, and I was in the wagon, reading the big 
black letters ! 

"Oh, Polly, 'tis!" I hollered. " True 's you 
live and breathe, a box from Boston ! Oh, hurry 
up! " 

Polly stopped short in " The Wearing of the 
Green," that she had commenced to sing at the 




top of her voice, and whirled about, her mouth 
and eyes as round as three pepper-box covers. 

" Heh ! " said she. 

"An express-box for Polly, Jed ?" called Ma, 
sticking her head from the kitchen- window. " You 
don't say so ! Fetch it right in here." And Ma 
whisked the clothes-basket from before the door. 

Jed threw the lines on Jerry's back, and shoul- 
dered me and the box, and dumped us both on the 

" There you be, maim ! " he said. " Want 1 
should open it ? Them nails appear to be driv' in 
pretty tight." For Jed was on tenter-hooks to 
know what was in it. 

" No, I guess not," said Ma. " I 'm afraid Jerry 
wont stand. Polly and I can open it." 

"Oh, bless your soul and body, marm, he'll 
stand ! " said Jed. " Best hoss I ever see fer that." 

But Ma would n't hear to his losing the time ; so 
Jed had to make himself scarce, looking mourn- 
fuller than when his grandmother died last spring. 

"Come, here's the hatchet, Polly ! Be a little 
spry ! " Ma said. For Polly stood with her arms 
akimbo, and did n't budge an inch. 

" Shure, an' who sint it?" she asked. And that 
was the only word she had spoken. 

"Why, I don't know," said Ma. "But I can 
imagine. Can't you ? " 

Polly marched to her tub, her head high in the 

" I wont tech the ould thing ! " said she. 

" Then I will for you," said Ma, and had it open 
in a jiffey. 

Underneath the cover was a piece of paper, with 
this written on it : 

Will Polly please accept these few articles in token that she for- 
gives me for having justly offended her by offering pay for a service 
which can never be paid for ? Mrs. E. G. Edson. 

When she heard that, Polly was n't quite so 
riled. She said Jessie's Ma was a rale lady, any- 
way, and she might as well see what she had sent. 
So, wiping her hands on her apron, she planted 
herself in the door-way, while Ma went to work to 
empty the box. 

First, there were six calico dress-patterns, — one 
purple, sprinkled with little black rings, and 
another pink, with a criggly vine running through 
it, and a black-striped white one, and the rest 
mixed colors. 

Then beneath were three more dresses, of some 
sheeny stuff, —alapaca, Ma called it, — black, purple 
and brown, that took every inch of dander out of 
Polly. She wiped her hands extra clean, and came 
and twisted them this way and that, and crinkled 
them and smoothed them, and puckered the ends 
into folds, and laying them across the ironing- 

table, backed toward the wall with her head cocked 
sideways, and her eyes squinted together like Mr. 
Green's, the portrait-painter, when he looks at 

" Shure, the Quane 'u'd be proud to wear thim ! " 
she said; and said she should have the purple for 
a wedding-gown. 

Then, besides, there was a red and black plaid 
shawl, and a whole piece of white muslin, such as 
you buy by the yard mostly, and a work-box, with 
cases of scissors and needles, and spools of thread 
and sewing-silk. And last was a bandbox tied with 
string, and that, Ma said, Polly must open. 


So Polly pulled a pin from her belt and puttere 
at the knot till I 'most had a fit. For Ma wot 
ever have a string cut ; she says it is a sinful wasti 
I thought it never would untie. Polly's finge: 
were all thumbs, and twice she dropped the ph 
But it did — all knots do if you pick at them Ion 
enough — and in the box was a splendiferous boi 
net, with green ribbon bows and three pink roses 

" Well, I declare ! " said Ma. " What more ca 
you want, Polly ? " 

Polly put the bandbox on the floor, and the bo 
net on her head, and started for the sitting-roo 

" Sakes alive ! Here 's another ! " Ma said, ai 
held up by one of its bows the sweetest little h. 
you ever laid eyes on ! It was light straw, trimm. 
with black velvet and blue silk, and had whl 
daisies fastened to the velvet. Pinned to one of tl 
streamers was a slip of paper, and on it was wr- 
ten, " For Kitty." 



18 7 

I just squealed ! It was all I could do ! To 
link of that beautiful little hat being for me, Kitty 
Iazel ! Why, I never counted on having anything 
alf so fine, unless I got to be the Grand Mogul, 
r something of that sort ! 
" The lady is very kind, I 'm sure," said Ma, 
;eming as pleased as could be. " Try it on, child. 
ou can squeal afterward." And she set it on my 
I ran and looked in one of Polly's bright milk- 
ins that were sunning outside the door, and I 
lrdly knew myself ! 

"Aint you smart ! " said I, nodding to the girl 
the pan. She smiled and nodded back, and 
oked so jolly that I came near turning a summer- 
t, new hat and all ! 

I wore it to meeting the next Sunday, with my 
:\v blue'cambric ; and I tell you what it is — it 's 
ough sight easier to be good in an old hat than 
I is in a new one ! I tried not to feel stuck-up, 
A I kept saying to myself: " Kitty Hazel, you 're 
e same girl that sat here last Sunday, with an 
1 Leghorn on. You aint any different ! " 
But it was n't much use ; for whenever I 'd raise 
f eyes there was Phil Gillis smiling at me from 

the judge's pew, and opposite were Dave and Aggie 
Stebbins, staring as though they had never seen 
the like of me before, and every now and then old 
Deacon Pettengil, who sits in front of us, would 
turn and peer at me through his green spectacles 
so funny that once I nearly giggled. 

This all happened last summer, but my hat is as 
pretty now as it ever was. Ma says she should 
have supposed the blue would have faded some by 
this time — blue is such a poor color to wear ; but it 
has n't a bit. When it does, I shall take it off, and 
have it for a sash for Rachel Tryphena, and the 
hat will be 'most as nice as it is now. 

Kitty Hazel. 

N. B. — I asked Polly how she thought of the 
umbrella. She said that when she was visiting her 
sister, that works for a dress-maker in Boston, she 
saw a picture of an old lady who was chased by a 
mad bull, and just as the bull was coming at her 
like sixty, the old lady turned and opened her um- 
brella square in his face. Polly said she always 
thought it was so cute of the old lady, and had 
meant to do the same when a mad bull chased her, 
if she had an umbrella with her. She said it all 
popped into her head when she saw the horses. 


By Howard Pyle. 

V STORK and a Crane once frequented the same 

rsh. The Stork was a quiet, dignified individ- 

,., with a philosophical countenance. One would 

, er have thought, from his deeply reflective look, 

the number of frogs and pollywogs, eels and 

ndl fish, that had disappeared in his meditative 

.nth. For the Stork was like many another 

losopher, and in spite of his supernaturally wise 

:rnal appearance, inside he was just as selfish, 

just as voracious, as all the rest of his kind. 

.lthough he never mentioned the subject, he 

. secretly very proud to recall the former gran- 

r of his ancestors, one of whom, in old Greek 

;, had been a famous king over the frogs, eels, 

snakes, in a Spartan marsh. 

he Crane was a lively little fellow, and not at all 

osophical. He ate his dinner without moral- 

J over it, and felt thankful when he had enough. 

r had not a particle of aristocratic blood in his 

r s, and, in consequence, rather ridiculed the 

p ession of that indescribable material by the 

Stork. Ridicule as he would, however, he was 
really secretly proud of his acquaintance with the 
other, and used to say to his friends and relatives 
sometimes : 

" There is no one in the world that more despises 
pretentiousness than myself. One only too fre- 
quently hears an animal boast of its aristocratic 
acquaintances. / never do that. Now, there is 
John Stork, of one of our highest families, and 
although I am not only on friendly but intimate 
terms with him, and even have been invited to call 
upon his estimable family, and make the acquaint- 
ance of Miss Stork (I have never had an oppor- 
tunity to do so yet), one never hears me boast of 
his friendship and intimacy." 

To tell the truth, the conversations he held with 
the philosophical Stork were frequently so deep, 
that he found himself floundering beyond his depth. 
For instance, " Do you always stand upon one 
leg ? " said he, one day. 

The Stork reflected so long over this question 



that the Crane thought he had gone to sleep. 
Finally, however, the philosopher said : 

" No ; I do not. I always stand upon the other." . 

The Crane meditated for a space over this, but 
as it was completely beyond his comprehension, he 
gave the matter up and changed the subject. His 
respect for the Stork's wisdom was vastly increased 
by such conversations, for one often takes for wis- 
dom what one cannot understand. 

These two friends, however, did not always dwell 
together in perfect amity. The Stork was so proud 
that he frequently galled his humbler companion, 
and bitter disputes often arose. It was under the 

willing at any time to run a foot-race with you, and 
so prove who is the more agile." 

"I do not know," answered the Stork, medi- 
tatively, " whether my family would altogether 
approve of my entering into the lists with such a 
vulgar creature as yourself." Here he shut one 
eye, and looked reflectively with the other at a frog 
that sat on a tussock near by. " Still, I recollec 
that one of my ancestors proved his valor upon ; 
turbulent duckling once, so I see no logical reasoi 
why I should not compete with you." 

And so the matter was settled. 

All was hubbub and excitement among the bird 


influence of such a feeling that the Crane burst 
forth one day : 

"And what are you that you should boast? 
You have blue blood in your veins, indeed ! Per- 
haps it is that blue blood that makes you so slug- 
gish and stupid." 

The Stork meditated a long while over this 
speech ; finally, he said : 

" When you accuse me of sluggishness and 
stupidity you judge by external appearances, and, 
consequently, by deductive logic. Beside, you do 
not take collateral matter into the case from which 
you draw your inference. You have never seen 
me when my physical energies have been aroused, 
consequently, your conclusion is both hollow and 
baseless — Q. E. D." 

The Crane was rather taken aback by this speech, 
and, not comprehending it, he felt somewhat hum- 
bled. At length he said: 

" / am no philosopher, but as they say ' the 
proof of the pudding is in the eating of it,' I am 

when the coming race was announced. The ral 
course was so constructed that the larger bijfl 
stood upon one side, and the smaller birds i 
animals upon the other. This was so arrangl, 
chiefly at the request of a deputy of frogs, becaii, 
at a mass meeting once, an albatross had e;iM 
twenty-seven of these animals in a fit of abst- ■ 
mindedness, as he said. Still the frogs desiretto 
prevent the recurrence of so painful a scene. 

The Cassowary was chosen director of the re, I 
chiefly because he was a famous traveler as we as 
.l pedestrian himself, and so was a judge of ::l j 
matters. He was the same of whom the Ganderhe j 
poet-laureate, had written the poem commencij— 4 

" It was a noble cassowary. 

On the plains of Timbuctoo, 
That gobbled up a missionary 

Body, bones, and hymn-book too." 

All were assembled. The champions stood *' 
to neck, while the spectators looked on, breates; 
with excitement. 



" Go ! " cried the Cassowary, and they went. 

For a long time they continued neck and neck, 
.nd the excitement rose to fever heat. At this 
uncture a mouse attempted to cross the race- 
ourse, and was instantly devoured by an owl, who 
cted as police of the course. At length the two 
acers re-appeared coming toward the grand stand, 
-that is, the place where the Cassowary stood with 
he signar-gun or, rather, pistol. The shouts and 
ries became more agitated and violent ; there was 
10 doubt about it, — the Stork was ahead ! It was 
i vain that the gallant little Crane strained every 
inevv; the Stork came into the stand a good three 
:ngths ahead of his adversary. Bang! went the 
listol, and the Stork had won. His adherents 
rowded around him cheering vociferously, and 

raising him aloft upon their shoulders above the 
crowd. Even the Cassowary came forward and 
shook hands with him. 

" Recollect, hereafter," said the successful Stork 
to the poor Crane, who stood dejectedly to one 
side, " not to scorn and undervalue qualities in any 
one, because they are not flaunted in the eyes of 
the world." 

The Crane's adherents maintained that it was a 
foul start, while the Stork's friends answered that 
when two birds ran a race, it could not well be any- 
thing else. 

The frogs, the mice, and most of the small birds, 
were divided among the successful betters; and, 
altogether, it was a day of rejoicing, except to the 
frogs, the mice, and most of the small birds. 


By Mrs. W. N. Clarke. 

One by one appearing 

In their lower sky, 
Come a host uncounted 

Like the stars on high, 
Flashing lights uncertain, 

Ever changing place, — 
Tricksy constellations 

That we cannot trace ! 

Throbbing through the elm-tree- 

Little heart of fire ! — 
One in lonely longing 

Rises ever higher ; 
Flits across the darkness, 

Like a shooting star, 
While the changeless heavens 

Calmly shine afar. 

When the flames are lighting 

All the chimney dark, 
When the green wood hisses, 

And the birchen bark 
In the blaze doth redden, 

Glow and snap and curl, 
Fire-flies, freed from prison, 

Merrilv dance and whirl. 

Children on the hearth-stone, 

Peering up the flue, 
See a mimic welkin. 

Lights that twinkle through, — 



[January, I 

Sparks that flash and flicker, 
Little short-lived stars, 

On the sooty darkness 
Glowing red as Mars ! 

Eager eyes a- watching 

Fain would have them pause. 
Catch these fire-flies — can you ?- 

In a web of gauze ! 
Ever upward flying 

Toward the chimney's crown— 
Up to meet the snow-flakes 

As they flutter down ! 

By Susan Archer Weiss. 

My young readers have doubtless often observed 
upon familiar objects, such as books, china and 
steelware, etc., the device of a lion and a horse 
(sometimes represented as a unicorn) supporting 
between them a shield, surmounted by a crown. 
On the shield are certain divisions called " quarter- 
ings," in one of which you will observe two lions 
and a horse. Attached to the whole is the motto, 
Dial ct mon droit, — French words, whose meaning 
is, " God and my right." 

If you inquire, you will be told that this device 
is the " coat-of-arms " of Great Britain, — as the 
eagle, shield and olive branch is that of the United 
States, — and that all articles thus marked are of 
British manufacture. 

In old times the national symbol of England was 
the rose, of Scotland the thistle, of Ireland the 
shamrock, or clover. When England claimed Ire- 
land and Scotland, these three were united on the 
British royal shield, as we find them in the time of 
Queen Elizabeth. On a victory over France, the 
symbol of France, a unicorn, was also added, the 
unicorn wearing a chain, to denote the subjection 
of France to England. This explains the nursery 
rhyme which you have no doubt often heard — 

" The lion and the unicorn fighting for the crown ; 
The lion whipped the unicorn all around the town." 

The sovereignty of Great Britain is by law 
hereditary, but sometimes there are disputes and 
wars for possession of the crown, and it passes 
into a new family. Thus some of the kings and 
queens of Great Britain have belonged to the 
family of Plantagenet, others to that of Tudor, 

and still others to the Stuarts. George the Firs'] 
of England was of a family named Guelph, ancl 
all the sovereigns of Great Britain succeeding him{ 
down to Queen Victoria, have been of this famihj 
and name. 

When a new sovereign succeeds to the crown I 
he has a right to place his own family coat-of-arm I 
on the royal shield of Great Britain. George thij 
First did this. The two lions and the white horsel 
which you see on one of the quarterings, is thij 
coat-of-arms of the Guelphs, who were dukes oj 
Brunswick and Hanover in Germany. It is there! 
fore called the arms of the House of Brunswick^ 
and it is about this that I now design to tell you. 

In order to begin at the beginning, we must gJ 
far back into past ages — almost to the time wheij 
our Savior was upon earth. At that period th] 
whole northern portion of Europe was inhabited b'l 
wild and barbarous tribes who had never heard oj 
Christ, but were Pagans and worshiped imaginarj 
gods, of whom Woden was chief. Among thes I 
races were the Saxons, a fair-haired, fair-corrj 
plexioned people, of great size and strength, whi 
inhabited that portion of country now known 2 J 
north Germany. They have never been perm;:j 
nently driven out of this country, which is to thl 
day occupied by their descendants, the German: ■( 
This latter name signifies a " war-like people.' 

Now, according to the pagan belief, the go: 
Woden had a favorite white or light-gray horsii 
created by magic art, and upon which he bestowe 
the power of assisting and protecting warriors. Th 
horse was regarded as sacred, and shared in til 
worship given to Woden. The pagan priests ha . 


I 9 I 

10 temples ; the art of building was unknown to 

hem ; but, instead, their religious ceremonies were 

lerformed in thick groves of oak which were set 

! part for the purpose. In these gloomy woods 

he priests reared beautiful white horses, which no 

nan was ever permitted to mount, and which, being 

rom their birth solemnly dedicated to Woden, 

/ere believed to be gifted by him with the power 

f foretelling events by means of certain signs and 

' notions. Before going into battle these sacred 

teeds were consulted, and occasionally one was 

acrificed to Woden or to his white horse, and the 

loody head was then mounted upon a pole, and 

r orne aloft in the van of the Saxon army, they be- 

! eving that it possessed the power of vanquishing 

re enemy and protecting themselves. We read 

1 history that when the great emperor, Charle- 

lagne, conquered the northern countries, one of 

pie Saxon leaders, named Wittikind, refused to 

rbmit to him, and that, in consequence, many 

! loody battles were fought, wherein the Saxons 

■ ore in their van a tall pole surmounted by a 

ooden horse's head. This was their ensign; and 

hen they afterward became more civilized, they 

'itained the same emblem, — a white horse painted 

fpon a black ground, — which remains to this day 

j le standard or banner of the little kingdom of 


In the year 861, — just about one thousand years 
' jo, — Bruno, the son of a Saxon king, founded a 
ty in Saxony which he called after himself, 
runonis Vicus, now known as Brunswick. He 
:tained as the standard of Brunswick the white 
arse of Saxony, and thus it remained until the 
id of the three succeeding centuries. About that 
me the reigning prince of Brunswick was a certain 
' enry Guelph, a leader in the Crusades, noted for 
s strength and daring, which acquired for him 
e title of " Henry the Lion." This prince refused 
I 1 ■ own allegiance to the great Emperor of Ger- 
' any, Frederic Barbarossa. He declared himself 
dependent, and as a token of defiance set up a 
•eat stone lion in Brunswick, and had the same 
mbol placed upon his standard, two lions sup- 
irting a shield beneath the white horse. 
Thus you now know the origin of the Brunswick 
at-of-arms. But how came the banner of a small 
erman country to be adopted on the arms of 
-, ' reat Britain ? This I will now explain. 
' About the year 1650, the then reigning Duke of 
unswick, afterward also Elector of Hanover, mar- 
id the granddaughter of King James the First 
England. Their eldest son was named George 
, mis. When, on the death of Queen Anne, the 
. lglish were in want of a successor, they looked 
out among those nearest of kin to the royal 
nily, and decided to choose this great-grandson 

of King James I. Thus it was that George Louis 
Guelph — a Saxon- German — came to be King 
George the First of England, and this was how 
the " lion-and-horse " arms of Brunswick and Han- 
over came to be also part of the arms of Great 
Britain. His successors were George the Second, 
George the Third (against whose rule the Ameri- 
can colonies rebelled), George the Fourth, Wil- 
liam, and lastly Victoria, the present queen, who 
is granddaughter to George the Third. Thus you 
understand how Queen Victoria is descended from 
the princes of Brunswick, — how she happens to be 
of German instead of English blood, — and why 
her name is Guelph. 

Now, whenever you look upon "The lion and 
the unicorn fighting for the crown," you will 
reflect how strange it is that this great and 
enlightened Christian nation should bear on its 
proud standard a symbol of pagan superstition. 
You will think of the bold Crusader, Henry the 
Lion ; of Wittikind, the brave Saxon duke who, 
after a twenty years' resistance, was finally con- 
quered and baptized into Christianity; of the wild, 
halfclad Saxons, with their bloody horse-head 
ensign ; of the Druid priests, who sacrificed human 
beings as well as white horses ; and so, far back 
to the god Woden himself, who was probably 
merely some great hero or warrior who lived in a 
period so remote that we have no record of it in 

And yet, while you are wondering at England 
and her relic of Woden-worship, shall I tell you that 
here, in America, we too possess relics of this very 
pagan god to which some people accord a supersti- 
tious regard ? Look on the threshold, or above the 
door of some cottage or cabin, and you will see 
nailed there a common horse-shoe as a protection 
against evil. Examine your grown-up sister's watch- 
chain, and you will find attached to it a tiny gold 
horse-shoe, studded with diamond nail-heads, which 
some friend has given her as a "charm" to secure 
" good luck." These are simply remnants of the 
old pagan Woden-worship which we inherit from 
our English ancestors, who are partly descended 
from the Saxons, as you have probably learned 
from your school history. And the word Wednes- 
day is a corruption of Woden's-Day, a name given 
by our Saxon ancestors to the fourth day of the 
week in honor of their god. 

When I was recently in Germany, I noticed upon 
the gable-end of every cottage and farm-house in 
Brunswick and Hanover a curious ornament, con- 
sisting of two horses' heads, roughly carved in wood, 
mounted upon poles, and placed above the entrance- 
doors, in the form of a cross. This was first done 
by order of Wittikind, who, upon professing Chris- 
tianity, changed the pagan symbols above the 




.' tli v " 

doors of dwellings to the sign of Christianity — the cross. The 
ignorant peasants do not know the origin of the custom, but will 
tell you that the crossed-heads are placed there " to keep out evil 
spirits, and to bring good luck to the house. 

'/^\^ i 4&i') 'aL-IM ') I saw m Brunswick the great stone lion which Henry Guelph 

'"' "''V "il 'i-^f^ -v '^~" S '- - placed there seven hundred years ago; and in Hanover, the old 

palace in which George the First was born, with the lion and 

/jyfj/iA the horse above the entrance. Once, too, in the Hartz mount- 

Tffi>V| ains, I visited a grand-looking ancient castle of the old dukes 


* -5&A 


of Brunswick, in which was born the wife of George the Second 
of England. It stood on the summit of a lofty precipice, up which 
we had to climb ; then crossing a deep moat by a narrow bridge, 
we entered through a great arched gate-way, surmounted by the 
Brunswick coat-of-arms, cut in the stone wall. The moat was dry, 
and ivy and tall trees growing in it far below, thrust the tips of 
their branches over the walls. I stopped and took a sketch of 
the old gate-way, which I here present my young readers. 




By Louisa M. Alcott. 

Chapter IV. 



I " I RAN away from a circus," began Ben, but 
>t no further, for Bab and Betty gave a simul- 
neous bounce of delight, and both cried out at 
i ice— 

i " We 've been to one ! It was splendid ! " 

! " You would n't think so if you knew as much 

'. iout it as I do," answered Ben, with a sudden 

>wn and wriggle, as if he still felt the smart of 

e blows he had received. " We don't call it 

lendid ; do we, Sancho ? " he added, making a 

eer noise, which caused the poodle to growl and 

ng the floor irefully with his tail, as he lay close 

his master's feet, getting acquainted with the 

w shoes they wore. 

"How came you there?" asked Mrs. Moss, 
:her disturbed at the news. 

." Why, my father was the ' Wild Hunter of the 
iins.'" Did n't you ever see or hear of him ? " 
d Ben, as if surprised at her ignorance. 
"Bless your heart, child, I haven't been to a 
' cus this ten years, and I 'm sure I don't remem- 
r what or who I saw then," answered Mrs. Moss, 
msed, yet touched by the son's evident admira- 
n for his father. 

'' Did n't you see him ? " demanded Ben, turning 
the little girls. 

'We saw Indians and tumbling men, and the 

binding Brothers of Borneo, and a clown and 

nkeys, and a little mite of a pony with blue 

I ts. Was he any of them ? " answered Betty, 

i ocently. 

'Pooh! he didn't belong to that lot. He 
: ays rode two, four, six, eight horses to oncet, 
:. I I used to ride with him till I got too big. Jl/y 
R ter was A No. 1, and didn't do anything but 
1 ak horses and ride 'em," said Ben, with as much 
I 3e as if his parent had been a President. 
■ ' Is he dead ? " asked Mrs. Moss. 
' I don't know. Wish I did," and poor Ben 
{ e a gulp as if something rose in his throat and 
c, ked him. 

' Tell us all about it, dear, and may be we can 
LI out where he is," said Ma, leaning forward to 
I the shiny dark head that was suddenly bent 
i r the dog. 

Yes, ma'am, I will, thank y'," and with an 
e rt the boy steadied his voice and plunged into 
middle of his story. 

" Father was always good to me, and I liked 
bein' with him after granny died. I lived with her 
till I was seven, then father took me, and I was 
trained for a rider. You jest oughter have seen 
me when I was a little feller all in white tights, and 
a gold belt, and pink riggin', standin' on father's 
shoulder, or hangin' on to old General's tail, and 
him gallopin' full pelt, or father ridin' three horses 
with me on his head wavin' flags, and every one 
clappin' like fun." 

"Oh, weren't you scared to pieces?" asked 
Betty, quaking at the mere thought. 

" Not a bit. I liked it." 

" So should I ! " cried Bab, enthusiastically. 

" Then I drove the four ponies in the little 
chariot, when we paraded," continued Ben, and I 
sat on the great ball up top of the grand car 
drawed by Hannibal and Nero. But I did n'f like 
that, 'cause it was awful high and shaky, and the 
sun was hot, and the trees slapped my face, and 
my legs ached holdin' on." 

"What's hanny bells and neroes ?" demanded 

" Big elephants. Father never let 'em put me 
up there, and they did n't darst till he was gone ; 
then I had to, else they 'd 'a' thrashed me." 

" Did n't any one take your part?" asked Mrs. 

" Yes 'm, 'most all the ladies did ; they were very 
good to me, 'specially 'Melia. She vowed she 
would n't go on in the Tunnymunt act if they 
did n't stop knockin' me round when I would n't 
help old Buck with the bears. So they had to 
stop it, 'cause she led first rate, and none of the 
other ladies rode half as well as 'Melia." 

" Bears ! oh, do tell about them ! " exclaimed 
Bab, in great excitement, for at the only circus she 
had seen the animals were her delight. 

" Buck had five of 'em, cross old fellers, and he 
showed 'em off. I played with 'em once, jest for 
fun, and he thought it would make a hit to have 
me show off instead of him. But they had a way 
of clawin' and huggin' that was n't nice, and you 
could n't never tell whether they were good-natured 
or ready to bite your head off. Buck was all over 
scars where they 'd scratched and bit him, and I 
was n't going to do it, and 1 did n't have to, owin' 
to Miss St. John's standin' by me like a good one." 

" Who was Miss St. John ? " asked Mrs. Moss, 
rather confused by the sudden introduction of new 
names and people. 




" Why, she was 'Melia, — Mrs. Smithers, the 
ring-master's wife. His name was n't Montgomery 
any more 'n hers was St. John. They all change 
'em to something fine on the bills, you know. . 
Father used to be Sehor Jose Montebelio, and I 
was Master Adolphus Bloomsbury after I stopped 
bein' a flying Coopid and a Infant Progidy." 

Mrs. Moss leaned back in her chair to laugh at 
that, greatly to the surprise of the little girls, who 
were much impressed with the elegance of these 
high-sounding names. 

" Go on with your story, Ben, and tell why you 
ran away and what became of your Pa," she said, 
composing herself to listen, really interested in the 

" Well, you see, father had a quarrel with old 
Smithers and went off sudden last fall, just before 
the tenting season was over. He told me he was 
goin' to a great ridin' school in New York, and 
when he was fixed he 'd send for me. I was to 
stay in the museum and help Pedro with the trick 
business. He was a nice man and I liked him, 
and 'Melia was good to see to me, and I did n't 
mind for awhile. But father did n't send for me, 
and I began to have horrid times. If it had n't 
been for 'Melia and Sancho I would have cut away 
long before I did." 

" What did you have to do ? " 

" Lots of things, for times was dull and I was 
smart. Smithers said so, anyway, and I had to 
tumble up lively when he gave the word. I did n't 
mind doin' tricks or showing off Sancho, for father 
trained him and he always did well with me. But 
they wanted me to drink gin to keep me small, and 
I would n't, 'cause father did n't like that kind of 
thing. I used to ride tip-top, and that just suited 
me till I got a fall and hurt my back ; but I had to 
go on all the same, though I ached dreadful, and 
used to tumble off, I was so dizzy and weak." 

" What a brute that man must have been ! 
Why didn't 'Melia put a stop to it?" asked Mrs. 
Moss, indignantly. 

" She died, ma'am, and then there was no one 
left but Sanch, so I run away." 

Then Ben fell to patting his dog again, to hide 
the tears he could not keep from coming at the 
thought of the kind friend he had lost. 

" What did you mean to do?" 

" Find father; but I couldn't, for he wasn't at 
the ridin' school, and they told me he had gone 
out West to buy mustangs for a man who wanted 
a lot. So then I was in a fix, for I could n't go to 
father, didn't know jest where he was, and I 
would n't sneak back to Smithers to be abused. 
Tried to make 'em take me at the ridin' school, 
but they did n't want a boy, and I traveled along 
and tried to get work. But I'd have starved if it 

had n't been for Sanch. I left him tied up when I 
ran off, for fear they 'd say I stole him. He 's 
very valuable dog, ma'am, the best trick dog I ever, 
see, and they 'd want him back more than they 
would me. He belongs to father, and I hated to 
leave him, but I did. I hooked it one dark night, 
and never thought I 'd see him ag'in. Next mornin', 
I was eatin' breakfast in a barn miles away ani 
dreadful lonesome, when he came tearin' in, all muci 
and wet, with a great piece of rope draggin'. He 
gnawed it, and came after me and would n't gt 
back or be lost; and I '11 never leave him again 
will I, dear old feller?" 

Sancho had iistened to this portion of the tali! 
with intense interest, and when Ben spoke to hiri 
he stood straight up, put both paws on the boy 
shoulders, licked his face with a world of dum' 
affection in his yellow eyes, and gave a little whin 
which said as plainly as words — • 

"Cheer up, little master; fathers may v 
and friends die, but / never will desert you.' 

Ben hugged him close and smiled over his curl' 
white head, at the little girls who clapped the 
hands at the pleasing tableau, and then went 
pat and fondle the good creature, assuring hi: 
that they entirely forgave the theft of the cake ar 
the new dinner-pail. Inspired by these endea 
ments and certain private signals given by Be' 
Sancho suddenly burst away to perform all his bej 
antics with unusual grace and dexterity. 

Bab and Betty danced about the room with ra 
ture, while Mrs. Moss declared she was almd 
afraid to have such a wonderfully intelligent aninj 
in the house. Praises of his dog pleased Ben mcl 
than praises of himself, and when the confusil 
had subsided he entertained his audience with] 
lively account of Sancho's cleverness, fidelity, al 
the various adventures in which he had nobly boi 
his part. 

While he talked Mrs. Moss was making up 1 
mind about him, and when he came to an end 
his dog's perfections, she said, gravely : 

" If I can find something for you to do, wo 
you like to stay here awhile ? " 

" Oh yes, ma'am, I 'd be glad to ! " answe 
Ben, eagerly ; for the place seemed home-' 
already, and the good woman almost as motln 
as the departed Mrs. Smithers. 

" Well, I '11 step over to the Judge's to-mor; 
to see what he says. Should n't wonder if hi 
take you for a chore-boy, if you are as smar)S 
you say. He always has one in the summer, IS 
I have n't seen any round yet. Can you dfl 
cows ? " 

" Hope so ; " and Ben gave a shrug, as if it 
a very unnecessary question to put to a person ft 
had driven four calico ponies in a gilded charic 


! 7 8.] 



" It may n't be as lively as riding elephants and 
laying with bears, but it is respectable, and I 
uess you '11 be happier switching Brindle and But- 
•rcup than being switched yourself," said Mrs. 
loss, shaking her head at him with a smile. 

"I guess I will, ma'am," answered Ben, with 
iidden meekness, remembering the trials from 
1 Inch he had escaped. 
-, Very soon after this, he was sent off" for a good 

ght's sleep in the back bedroom, with Sancho to 
'itch over him. But both found it difficult to slum- 
r:r till the racket overhead subsided, for Bab in- 

;ted on playing she was a bear and devouring poor 
kitty in spite of her wails, till their mother came 
p and put an end to it by threatening to send 


'l and his dog away in the morning if the girls 
id n't behave and be as still as mice." 
''his they solemnly promised, and they were soon 
( aming of gilded cars and moldy coaches, run- 
i.y boys and dinner-pails, dancing dogs and 
ling tea-cups. 

Chapter V 


v'hen Ben awoke next morning, he looked about 
for a moment half bewildered, because there 

neither a canvas tent, a barn roof, nor the blue 
above him, but a neat white ceiling, where 

■ral flies buzzed sociably together, while from 

without came, not the tramping of horses, the twit- 
ter of swallows, or the chirp of early birds, but the 
comfortable cackle of hens and the sound of two 
little voices chanting the multiplication table. 

Sancho sat at the open window watching the old 
cat wash her face, and trying to imitate her with his 
great ruffled paw, so awkwardly that Ben laughed, 
and Sanch, to hide his confusion at being caught, 
made one bound from chair to bed and licked his 
master's face so energetically that the boy dived 
under the bedclothes to escape from the rough 

A rap on the floor from below made both jump 
up, and in ten minutes a shiny-faced lad and a 
lively dog went racing down-stairs — one to say, 
"Good-morning, ma'am," the other to wag his tail 
faster than ever tail wagged before, for ham frizzled 
on the stove, and Sancho was fond of it. 

" Did you rest well ? " asked Mrs. Moss, nodding 
at him, fork in hand. 

<; Guess I did ! Never saw such a bed. \ 'm 
used to hay and a horse-blanket, and lately nothing 
but sky for a cover and grass for my feather bed," 
laughed Ben, grateful for present comforts and 
making light of past hardships. 

"Clean, sweet corn-husks aint bad for young 
bones, even if they have n't got more flesh on 
them than yours have," answered Mrs. Moss, giving 
the smooth head a motherly stroke as she went by. 

" Fat aint allowed in our profession, ma'am. 
The thinner the better for tight-ropes and tumblin' ; 
likewise bareback-ridin' and spry jugglin'. Muscle 's 
the thing, and there you are." 

Ben stretched out a wiry little arm with a clenched 
fist at the end of it, as if he were a young Hercules 
ready to play ball with the stove if she gave him 
leave. Glad to see him in such good spirits, she 
pointed to the well outside, saying pleasantly : 

" Well, then, just try your muscle by bringing 
in some fresh water." 

Ben caught up a pail and ran off, ready to be 
useful ; but while he waited for the bucket to fill 
down among the mossy stones, he looked about 
him, well pleased with all he saw, — the small brown 
house with a pretty curl of smoke rising from its 
chimney, the little sisters sitting in the sunshine, 
green hills and newly planted fields far and near, 
a brook dancing through the orchard, birds singing 
in the elm avenue, and all the world as fresh and 
lovely as early summer could make it. 

" Don't you think it 's pretty nice here?" asked 
Bab, as his eye came back to them after a long 
look, which seemed to take in everything, brighten- 
ing as it roved. 

" Just the nicest place that ever was. Only 
needs a horse round somewhere to be complete," 
answered Ben, as the long well-sweep came up 



[January I 

with a dripping bucket at one end, an old grind- 
stone at the other. 

" The Judge has three, but he's so fussy about 
them he wont even let us pull a few hairs out of old 
Major's tail to make rings of," said Betty, shutting 
her arithmetic, with an injured expression. 

" Mike lets me ride the white one to water when 
the Judge isn't 'round. It's such fun to go jouncing 
down the lane and back. I do love horses ! " cried 
Bab, bobbing up and down on the blue bench to 
imitate the motion of white Jenny. 

" I guess you are a plucky sort of a girl," and 
Ben gave her an approving look as he went by, 
taking care to slop a little water on Mrs. Puss, who 
stood curling her whiskers and humping up her 
back at Sancho. 

" Come to breakfast ! " called Mrs. Moss, and for 
about twenty minutes little was said as mush and 
milk vanished in a way that would have astonished 
even Jack the Giant-killer with his leather bag. 

" Now, girls, fly round and get your chores done 
up ; Ben, you go chop me some kindlings ; and 
I 'II make things tidy. Then we can all start off at 
once," said Mrs. Moss, as the last mouthful van- 
ished, and Sancho licked his lips over the savory 
scraps that fell to his share. 

Ben fell to chopping so vigorously that chips flew 
wildly all about the shed, Bab rattled the cups 
into her dish-pan with dangerous haste, and Betty 
raised a cloud of dust " sweeping-up," while mother 
seemed to be everywhere at once. Even Sanch, 
feeling that his fate was at stake, endeavored to 
help in his own somewhat erratic way, — now frisk- 
ing about Ben at the risk of getting his tail chopped 
off, then trotting away to poke his inquisitive nose 
into every closet and room whither he followed 
Mrs. Moss in her " flying round" evolutions ; next 
dragging off the mat so Betty could brush the 
door-steps, or inspecting Bab's dish-washing by 
standing on his hind-legs to survey the table with 
a critical air. When they drove him out he was 
not the least offended, but gayly barked Puss up a 
tree, chased all the hens over the fence, and care- 
fully interred an old shoe in the garden, where the 
remains of a mutton-bone were already buried. 

By the time the others were ready, he had worked 
off his superfluous spirits and trotted behind the 
party like a well-behaved dog accustomed to go out 
walking with ladies. At the cross-roads they sepa- 
rated, the little girls running on to school, while 
Mrs. Moss and Ben went up to the Squire's big 
house on the hill. 

" Don't you be scared, child. I '11 make it all 
right about your running away ; and if the Squire 
gives you a job, just thank him for it, and do your 
best to be steady and industrious ; then you '11 get 
on, I have n't a doubt," she whispered, ringing the 

bell at a side-door on which the word "Allen' 
shone in bright letters. 

"Come in !" called a gruff voice, and feeling 
very much as if he were going to have a tooth out 
Ben meekly followed the good woman, who put oi 
her pleasantest smile, anxious to make the bes 
possible impression. 

A white-headed old gentleman sat reading 
paper, and peered over his glasses at the new- 
comers with a pair of sharp eyes, saying in a test] 
tone, which would have rather daunted any on 
who did not know what a kind heart he had unde 
his capacious waistcoat : 

"Good-morning, ma'am! What's the mattf 
now ? Young tramp been stealing your chickens? 

" Oh dear no, sir ! " exclaimed Mrs. Moss, as 
shocked at the idea. Then, in a few words, si 
told Ben's story, unconsciously making his wrong 
and destitution so pathetic by her looks and tone 
that the Squire could not help being interest© 
and even Ben pitied himself as if he was som 
body else. 

" Now then, boy, what can you do ? " asked tl 
old gentleman, with an appi )ving nod to Mi 
Moss as she finished, and such a keen glance fro 
under his bushy brows that Ben felt as if he w 
perfectly transparent. 

" 'Most anything, sir, to get my livin'." 

" Can you weed ? " 

" Never did, but I can learn, sir." 

" Pull up all the beets and leave the pigwc 
hey ? Can you pick strawberries ? " 

" Never tried anything but eatin' 'em, sir." 

" Not likely to forget that part of the job. C 
you ride a horse to plow ? " 

" Guess I could, sir ! " — and Ben's eyes began 
sparkle, for he dearly loved the noble animals » 
had been his dearest friends lately. 

" No antics allowed. My horse is a fine fell 
and I 'm very particular about him." 

The Squire spoke soberly, but there was a twin 
in his eye, and Mrs. Moss tried not to smile, for 
Squire's horse was a joke all over the town, be 
about twenty years old, and having a peculiar j 
of his own, lifting his fore-feet very high, witil 
great show of speed, though never going out c: 
jog-trot. The boys used to say he galloped bel 
and walked behind, and made all sorts of fun of 
big, Roman-nosed beast who allowed no liber 
to be taken with him. 

" I 'm too fond of horses to hurt 'em, sir. 
for riding, I aint afraid of anything on four It 
The King of Morocco used to kick and bite 
fun, but I could manage him first-rate." 

" Then you'd be able to drive cows to past' 
perhaps ? " 

" I 've driven elephants and camels, ostrii 



nd grizzly bears, and mules, and six yellow ponies 

II to onct. Maybe I could manage cows if I tried 

lard," answered Ben, endeavoring to be meek and 

i ;spcctful when scorn filled his soul at the idea of 

: ot being able to drive a cow. 

The Squire liked him all the better for the droll 

lixture of indignation and amusement betrayed by 
, le fire in his eyes and the sly smile round his lips ; 

nd being rather tickled by Ben's list of animals, 

e answered, gravely : 
" We don't raise elephants and camels much 

>und here. Bears used to be plenty, but folks got 

" I '11 make inquiries concerning your father, 
boy ; meantime mind what you are about, and 
have a good report to give when he comes for 
you," returned the Squire, with a warning wag of 
a stern fore-finger. 

" Thank y', sir. I will, sir. Father '11 come just 
as soon as he can, if he is n't sick or lost," mur- 
mured Ben, inwardly thanking his stars that he 
had not done anything to make him quake before 
that awful finger, and resolving that he never 

Here a red-headed Irishman came to the door, 



sd of them. Mules are numerous, but we have 
two-legged kind, and as a general thing prefer 

Langhae fowls to ostriches." 
He got no farther, for Ben laughed out so infec- 

1'usly that both the others joined him, and sorae- 

•w that jolly laugh seemed to settle matters better 

Itn words. As they stopped, the Squire tapped 
the window behind him, saying, with an attempt 

:the former gruffness : 

We '11 try you on cows awhile. My man will 

->w you where to drive them, and give you some 
I jobs through the day. I '11 see what you are 
)d for, and send you word to-night. Mrs. Moss, 
boy can sleep at your house, can't he ? " 
'Yes, indeed, sir. He can go on doing it, and 
ne up to his work just as well as not. I can see 

■ bim then, and he wont be a care to any one," 
i Mrs. Moss, heartily. 

and stood eying the boy with small favor while the 
Squire gave his orders. 

"Pat, this lad wants work. He's to take the 
cows and go for them. Give him any light jobs 
you have, and let me know if he 's good for any- 

'• Yis, your honor. Come out o' this, b'y, till I 
show ye the bastes," responded Pat ; and, with a 
hasty good-bye to Mrs. Moss, Ben followed his new 
leader, sorely tempted to play some naughty trick 
upon him in return for his ungracious reception. 

But in a moment he forgot that Pat existed, for 
in the yard stood the Duke of Wellington, so named 
in honor of his Roman nose. If Ben had known 
anything about Shakspeare he would have cried, 
" A horse, a horse ! — my kingdom for a horse ! " 
for the feeling was in his heart, and he ran up to 
the stately animal without a fear. Duke put back 




his ears and swished his tail as if displeased for a 
moment ; but Ben looked straight in his eyes, gave 
a scientific stroke to the iron-gray nose, and uttered 
a chirrup which made the ears prick up as if recog- 
nizing a familiar sound. 

"He'll nip ye, if ye go botherin' that way. 
L'ave him alone, and attind to the cattle as his 
honor tould ye," commanded Pat, who made a 
great show of respect toward Duke in public, and 
kicked him brutally in private. 

" I aint afraid ! You wont hurt me, will you, 
old feller ? See there now ! — he knows I 'm a 
friend, and takes to me right off," said Ben, with 
an arm around Duke's neck, and his own cheek 
confidingly laid against the animal's, for the intelli- 
gent eyes spoke to him as plainly as the little 
whinny which he understood and accepted as a 

The Squire saw it all from the open window, and 
suspecting from Pat's face that trouble was brew- 
ing, called out : 

" Let the lad harness Duke, if he can. I 'm 
going out directly, and he may as well try that as 

Ben was delighted, and proved himself so brisk 
and handy that the roomy chaise stood at the door 
in a surprisingly short time, with a smiling little 
ostler at Duke's head when the Judge came out. 

His affection for the horse pleased the old gentle- 
man, and his neat way of harnessing suited as well ; 
but Ben got no praise except a nod and a brief 
"All right, boy," as the equipage went creaking 
and jogging away. 

Four sleek cows filed out of the barn-yard when 
Pat opened the gate, and Ben drove them down 
the road to a distant pasture where the early grass 
awaited their eager cropping. By the school they 
went, and the boy looked pityingly at the black, 
brown and yellow heads bobbing past the windows 
as a class went up to recite, for it seemed a hard 
thing to the liberty-loving lad to be shut up there 
so many hours on a morning like that. 

But a little breeze that was playing truant round 
the steps did Ben a service without knowing it, for 
a sudden puff blew a torn leaf to his feet, and see- 
ing a picture he took it up. It evidently had fallen 
from some ill-used history, for the picture showed 
some queer ships at anchor, some oddly dressed 
men just landing, and a crowd of Indians dancing 
about on the shore. Ben spelt out all he could 
about these interesting personages, but could not 
discover what it meant, because ink evidently had 
deluged the page, to the new reader's great dis- 

"I'll ask the girls; may be they will know," 
said Ben to himself as, after looking vainly for more 
stray leaves, he trudged on, enjoying the bobolink's 

song, the warm sunshine, and a comfortable sense 
of friendliness and safety, which soon set him to 
whistling as gayly as any blackbird in the meadow. 

Chapter VI. 


AFTER supper that night, Bab and Betty sat in 
the old porch playing with Josephus and Belinda, 
and discussing the events of the day, for the ap- 
pearance of the strange boy and his dog had been 
a most exciting occurrence in their quiet lives. 
They had seen nothing of him since morning, as 
he took his meals at the Squire's, and was at work 
with Pat in a distant field when the children passed. 
Sancho had stuck closely to his master, evidently 
rather bewildered by the new order of things, and 
bound to see that no harm happened to Ben. 

"I wish they'd come. It's sun-down, and I 
heard the cows mooing, so I know they have gone 
home," said Betty, impatiently; for she regarded 
the new comer in the light of an entertaining book, 
and wished to read on as fast as possible. 

"I'm going to learn the signs he makes when 
he wants Sancho to dance ; then we can have fun 
with him whenever we like. He 's the dearest dog 
I ever saw?" answered Bab, who was fonder o; 
animals than her sister. 

" Ma said — Ow, what 's that!" cried Betty, witb 
a start as something bumped against the gate out 
side, and in a moment Ben's head peeped over tht 
top as he swung himself up to the iron arch, in the 
middle of which was the empty lantern frame. 

" Please to locate, gentlemen; please to locate 
The performance is about to begin with the grea 
Flyin' Coopid act, in which Master Bloomsbun 
has appeared before the crowned heads of Europe 
Pronounced by all beholders the most remarkabli 
youthful progidy agoin'. Hooray ! here we are ! 

Having rattled off the familiar speech in Mr 
Smithers's elegant manner, Ben began to cut U] 
such capers that even a party of dignified hens 
going down the avenue to bed, paused to look 01 
with clucks of astonishment, evidently fancyin; 
that salt had set him to fluttering and tumbling a 
it did them. Never had the old gate beheld sue) 
antics, though it had seen gay doings in its time 
for of all the boys who had climbed over it, not on 
had ever stood on his head upon each of the bi; 
balls which ornamented the posts, hung by liii 
heels from the arch, gone round and round like 
wheel with the bar for an axis, played a tattoo wit 
his toes while holding on by his chin, walked abor 
the wall on his hands, or closed the entertainmerl 
by festooning himself in an airy posture over th 
side of the lantern frame, and kissing his hand t 
the audience, as a well-bred Cupid is supposed 
do on making his bow. 




The little girls clapped and stamped enthusiasti- 
ly, while Sancho, who had been calmly survey- 
; the show, barked his approval as he leaped up 
'snap at Ben's feft. 
' Come down and tell what you did up at the 
uire's. Was he cross ? Did you have to work 
'd ? Do you like it ? " asked Bab, when the 
se had subsided. 

V It 's cooler up here," answered Ben, compos- 

himself in the frame, and fanning his hot face 

"h a green spray broken from the tall bushes 

itling odorously all about him. " I did all sorts 

! obs. The old gentleman was n't cross ; he gave 

a dime, and I like him first-rate. But I just 

t " Carrots " ; he swears at a feller, and fired a 

■k of wood at me. Guess I '11 pay him off when 

:t a chance." 

umbling in his pocket to show the bright dime, 
'ound the torn page, and remembered the thirst 
i nformation which had seized him in the morning. 
P Look here, tell me about this, will you ? What 
1? these chaps up to ? The ink has spoilt all but 
i picture and this bit of reading. I want to know 
K t it means. Take it to 'em, Sanch." 

he dog caught the leaf as it fluttered to the 
jf'ind, and carrying it carefully in his mouth, 
i Dsited it at the feet of the little girls, seating 
1 1 ! self before them with an air of deep interest. 
6" and Betty picked it up and read it aloud in 
on, while Ben leaned from his perch to listen 

' When day dawned land was visible. A pleas- 
land it was. There were gay flowers, and tall 
; with leaves and fruit such as they had never 
before. On the shore were unclad, copper- 
Ci'red men, gazing with wonder at the Spanish 

s. They took them for great birds, the white 

for their wings, and the Spaniards for superior 

gs brought down from heaven on their backs.' " 

Why, that 's Columbus finding San Salvador. 

't you know about him ? " demanded Bab, as 

e were one of the " superior beings," and inti- 

p : ily acquainted with the immortal Christopher. 

1 'No, I don't. Who was he anyway ? I s'pose 

■I's him paddlin' ahead ; but which of the 

■ps is Sam Salvindoor ? " asked Ben, rather 

asimed of his ignorance, but bent on finding out 

I* he had begun. 

t My gracious ! twelve years old and not know 
1^ Quackenbos," laughed Bab, much amused, 
l»Si-' rather glad to find that she could teach the 
irligig boy " something, for she considered 
H' x remarkable creature. 

don't care a bit for your quackin' boss, who- 
2V he is. Tell about this fine feller with the 
» : I like him," persisted Ben. 

Bab, with frequent interruptions and hints 

from Betty, told the wonderful tale in a simple 
way, which made it easy to understand, for she 
liked history, and had a lively tongue of her own. 

" I 'd like to read some more. Would my ten 
cents buy a book?" asked Ben, anxious to learn a 
little since Bab laughed at him. 

"No, indeed! I'll lend you mine when I'm 
not using it, and tell you all about it," promised 
Bab, forgetting that she did not know " all about 
it " herself yet. 

" I don't have any time only evenings, and then 
may be you '11 want it," begun Ben, in whom the 
inky page had roused a strong curiosity. 

" I do get my history in the evening, but you 
could have it mornings, before school." 

'• I shall have to go off early, so there wont be 
any chance. Yes, there will, — I '11 tell you how to 
do it : Let me read while I drive up the cows. 
Squire likes 'em to eat slow along the road, so 's to 
keep the grass short and save mowin'. Pat said 
so, and I could do history instead of loafin' round ! " 
cried Ben, full of this bright idea. 

" How will I get my book back in time to re- 
cite?" asked Bab, prudently. 

" Oh, I '11 leave it on the window-sill, or put it 
inside the door as I go back. I '11 be real careful, 
and just as soon as I earn enough, I '11 buy you a 
new one and take the old one. Will you ? " 

"Yes; but I'll tell you a nicer way to do. 
Don't put the book on the window, 'cause teacher 
will see you ; or inside the door, 'cause some one 
may steal it. You put it in my cubby-house, right 
at the corner of the wall nearest the big maple. 
You '11 find a cunning place between the roots that 
stick up under the flat stone. That 's my closet, 
and I keep things there. It 's the best cubby of all, 
and we take turns to have it." 

" I '11 find it, and that'll be a first-rate place," 
said Ben, much gratified. 

" I could put my reading-book in sometimes, if 
you 'd like it. There 's lots of pretty stories in it 
and pictures," proposed Betty, rather timidly, for 
she wanted to share the benevolent project, but 
had little to offer, not being as good a scholar as 
bright Bab. 

" I 'd like a 'rithmetic better. I read tip-top, 
but I aint much on 'rithmetic ; so, if you can spare 
yours, I might take a look at it. Now I 'm going 
to earn wages, I ought to know about addin' 'em 
up, and so on," said Ben, with the air of a Yander- 
bilt oppressed with the care of millions. 

" I '11 teach you that. Betty does n't know much 
about sums. But she spells splendidly, and is 
always at the head of her class. Teacher is real 
proud of her, 'cause she never misses, and spells 
hard, fussy words, like chi-rog-ra-pliy and bron- 
chi-tis as easy as anything." 




Bab quite beamed with sisterly pride, and Betty 
smoothed down her apron with modest satisfaction, 
for Bab seldom praised her, and she liked it very 

" I never went to school, so that 's the reason I 
aint smart. I can write, though, better 'n some of 
the boys up at school. I saw lots of names on the 
shed door. See here now," and scrambling down, 
Ben pulled out a cherished bit of chalk and flour- 
ished off ten letters of the alphabet, one on each of 
the dark stone slabs that paved the walk. 

" Those are beautiful ! I can't make such curly 
ones. Who taught you to do it?" asked Bab, as 
she and Betty walked up and down admiring them. 

" Horse blankets," answered Ben, soberly. 

" What ! " cried both girls, stopping to stare. 

" Our horses all had their names on their blank- 

ets, and I used to copy 'em. The wagons hac 
signs, and I learned to read that way after father! 
taught me my letters off the red and yellow posters 
First word I knew was lion, 'cause I was always 
goin' to see old Jubal in his cage. Father wasrea; 
proud when I read it right off. I can draw one 

Ben proceeded to depict an animal intended t 
represent his lost friend ; but Jubal would not hav 
recognized his portrait, since it looked much mor 
like Sancho than the king of the forest. The chi 
dren admired it immensely, however, and Ben gav 
them a lesson in natural history which was so intei 
esting that it kept them busy and happy till bee, 
time ; for the boy described what he had see 
in such lively language, and illustrated in such 
droll way, it was no wonder they were charmed. 

(To be continued.) 


By Josephine Pollard. 

A PUSSY-CAT and a Black-and-Tan 

Were shut in a room together, 
And, after a season of quiet, began 

To talk of the change in the weather, 
And new spring fashions, and after that 
They had a sort of musical chat. 

Said Puss: "To me it is quite absurd — 

But tastes and opinions vary ; 
And some have declared that no beast or bird 

Can sing like the small canary, — 
Who, if it be true as I 've heard it told, 
Is really worth more than its weight in gold!" 

Said the Black-and-Tan, with a pensive smile : 

" I 've wanted to call attention 

To this bit of scandal for quite a while, 

And, if not amiss, to mention 
That my daily allowance of bark and w(h)ine 
Has greatly improved this voice of mine." 

It has," said Puss, with a comic grin; 
" The words of truth you have spoken ; 
A name for ourselves we must strive to win 

At once, now the ice is broken ; 
For one or two doses of catnip tea 
Have had a wondrous effect on me ! 



'T was only the other night I strayed 
Where a silvery moonbeam slanted, 

And gave such a beautiful serenade 

You 'd have thought the place enchanted. 

It roused the neighborhood to a pitch 

Of praise, or envy — I can't tell which." 

Said the Black-and-Tan, "Why should n't we try 

To sing a duet together ? " 
Said the Puss, " I see no reason why 

We can't ; and we '11 show them whether 
To birds and bipeds alone belong 
The gift of singing a pleasing song ! " 

11 w^ 



They sang — and they sang; but oh, my dears ! 

If you had been anywhere near them, 
You 'd have shut your eyes and stopped your ears, 

And wished that you could n't hear them. 
'T was a brilliant effort, upon my word, 
And nearly killed the canary-bird. 

The Pussy-cat and the Black-and-Tan 
With the music were so delighted, 

They will give a concert as soon as they can, 
And perhaps we may be invited. 

Bow-wow ! " " Miaow ! " I 'm sorry, you know, 

I 've another engagement — and cannot go ! 

Vol. v.— 14. 




By George MacDonald. 

My dear Cousins : Shall I really be talking 
to you as I sit here in my study with the river 
Thames now flowing, now ebbing, past my win- 
dow ? I am uttering no word, I am only writing ; 
and you are not listening, not reading, for it will 
be a long time ere what I am now thinking shall 
reach you over the millions of waves that swell and 
sink between us. And yet I shall in very truth be 
talking to you. 

In like manner, with divine differences, God 
began to talk to us ages before we were born : 
I will not say before we began to be, for, in a 
sense, that very moment God thought of us we 
began to exist, for what God thinks of, is. We 
have been lying for ages in his heart without know- 
ing it. But now we have begun to know it. We 
are here, with a great beginning, and before us an 
end so great that there is no end to it. But we 
must take heed, for, else, the very greatness will 
turn to confusion and terror. 

Shall I explain what made me begin my letter 
to you just this way ? — I was sitting in my room, 
as I am now, thinking what I should say to you. 
And as I sat thinking after something worth saying 
and fit to say, my room spoke to me, — that is, out 
of its Condition and appearance came a thought 
into my mind. And that you may understand how 
it came, and how it was what it was, I will first 
show you what my room at this moment is like. 
For the thought had nothing to do with the sun 
outside, or the shining river, or the white-sailed 
boats, neither with the high wind that is tossing 
the rosy hawthorn-bloom before my windows, or 
with the magnolia trained up the wall and looking 
in at one of them : it had to do only with the inside 
of the room. 

It is a rather long room. The greater part has 
its walls filled with books, and I am sitting at one 
end quite surrounded by them. But when I lift 
my eyes, I look to the other end, and into the 
heart of a stage for acting upon, filling all the 
width and a third part of the length of the room. 
It is surrounded with curtains, but those in front 
of it are withdrawn, and there the space of it lies 
before me, a bare, empty hollow of green and blue 
and red, which to-morrow evening will be filled 
with group after group of moving, talking, shining, 
acting men and women, boys and girls. It looked 
to me like a human heart, waiting to be filled with 
the scenes of its own story, — with this difference, 
that the heart itself will determine of what sort 

those groups shall be. Then there grew up in my 
mind the tollowing little paiable, which, to those 
who do not care to understand it, will be dark, — 
but to those who desire to know its meaning, may 
give light : 

There was once a wise man to whom was granted 
the power to send forth his thoughts in shapes that 
other people could see. And, as he walked abroad 
in the world, he came upon some whom his wisdom 
might serve. One day, having, in a street of the 
city where he dwelt, rescued from danger a boy 
about ten years of age, he went with him to his 
mother, and begged that he might take him to his 
house for a week. When they heard his name, 
the parents willingly let their son go with him. 
And he taught him many things, and the boy loved 
and trusted him. 

When the boy was asleep in bed, the wise man 
w ; ould go to his room at midnight, and lay his ear 
to his ear, and hearken to his dreams. Then he 
would stand and spread out his arms over him and 
look up. And the boy would smile, and his sleep 
was the deeper. 

Once, just an hour after the sage had thus visited 
him, the boy woke, and found himself alone in the 
middle of the night. He could not get to sleep 
again, and grew so restless that he rose and went 
down the stair. The moon shone in at every west- 
ern window, and his way was "now in glimmer 
and now in gloom." On the first landing he saw 
a door wide open, which he had never seen open 
till now. It was the door of the wizard's room. 
Within, all was bright with moonlight, and the boy 
first peeped, then stepped in, and peered timidly 
about him. 

The farther end of the room was hidden by a cur- 
tain stretched quite across it, and, curious to see 
what was behind, he approached it. But ere he 
reached it, the curtain slowly divided in the midst 
and, drawn back to each side, revealed a place with 
just light enough in it from the moonshine to show 
that it was a dungeon. In the middle of it, upon 
the floor, sat a prisoner, with fetters to his feet, and 
manacles to his hands; an iron collar was round 
his neck, and a chain from the collar had its last 
link in an iron staple deep-fixed in the stone floor. 
His head was sunk on his bosom, and he sat abject 
and despairing. 

"What a wicked man he must be!" thought 
the boy, and was turning to run away in terror, 
when the man lifted his head, and his look caught 



.nd held him. For he saw a pale, worn, fierce 
ountenance, which, somehow, through all the 
dded years, and all the dirt that defiled it, he 
ecognized as his own. For a moment the prisoner 
;azed at him mournfully ; then a wild passion of 
age and despair seized him ; he dragged and tore 
t his chains, raved and shrieked, and dashed him- 
;lf on the ground like one mad with imprisonment, 
'or a time he lay exhausted, then half rose and 
it as before, gazing helplessly upon the ground. 

By and by a spider came creeping along the bar 
f his fetters. He put out his hand, and, with the 
lanacle on his wrist, crushed it, and smiled. In- 
antly through the gloom came a strong, clear, 
ut strangely sweet voice — and the very sweetness 
;id in it something that made the boy think of 
ire. And the voice said : 
, " So ! in the midst of misery, thou takest delight 

destruction! Is it not well thou art chained? 

thou wast free, thou wouldst in time destroy the 
orld. Tame thy wild beast, or sit there till I 
■me him." 

The prisoner peered and stared through the dusk, 
'tt could see no one ; he fell into another fit of 
"rious raving, but not a hair-breadth would one 
-.ik of chain yield to his wildest endeavor, 
ft" Oh, my mother ! " he cried, as he sank again 
'to the grave of exhaustion. 

" Thy mother is gone from thee," said the voice, 
'outworn by thine evil ways. Thou didst choose 
• have thyself and not thy mother, and there thou 
'st thyself, and she is gone. I only am left to care 

' thee — not with kisses and sweet words, but with 

lungeon. Unawares to thyself thou hast forged 
■ ne own chains, and riveted them upon thy limbs. 
■'it Hercules could free thee or himself from such 

The man burst out weeping, and cried with 

I 'What then am I to do, for the burden of them 
: ntolerable ? " 

i ' What I will tell thee," said the voice ; " for so 
I .11 thy chains fall from thee." 

' I will do it," said the man. 

■' Thy prison is foul," said the voice. 

■ ' It is," answered the prisoner. 

'Cleanse it, then." 

•' How can I cleanse it when I cannot move ? " 
1 Cannot move ! Thy hands were upon thy face 
8' oment gone — and now they are upon the floor ! 
l\ ir one of those hands lies a dead mouse ; yon- 
Cj is an open window. Cast the dead thing out 
m 1 the furnace of life, that it may speedily make 
a ;nd thereof." 

! /ith sudden obedient resolve the prisoner made 
t endeavor to reach it. The chain pulled the 
ir hard, and the manacle wrenched his wrist ; 

but he caught the dead thing by the tail, and with 
a fierce effort threw it ; out of the window it flew 
and fell — and the air of his dungeon seemed already 

After a silence, came the voice again : 

"Behind thee lies a broom," it said; "reach 
forth and take it, and sweep around thee as far as 
thy chains will yield thee scope." 

The man obeyed, and, as he swept, at every 
stroke he reached farther. At length, — how it 
came he could not tell, for his chains hung heavy 
upon him still, — he found himself sweeping the 
very foot of the walls. 

A moment more, and he stood at the open win- 
dow, looking out into the world. A dove perched 
upon the window-sill, and walked inquiringly in; 
he caught it in his hands, and looked how to close 
the window, that he might secure its company. 
Then came the voice : 

"Wilt thou, a prisoner, make of thyself a 
jailer ? " 

He opened his hands, and the dove darted 
into the sunlight. There it fluttered and flashed 
for a moment, like a bird of snow ; then re- 
entered, and flew into his very hands. He stroked 
and kissed it. The bird went and came, and was 
his companion. 

Still, his chains hung about him, and he sighed 
and groaned under their weight. 

"Set thee down," said the voice, "and polish 
thine irons." 

He obeyed, rubbing link against link busily with 
his hands. And thus he labored — as it seemed to 
the boy in the vision — day after day, until at last 
every portion within his reach, of fetter, and chain, 
and collar, glittered with brightness. 

"Go to the window," then said the voice, "and 
lay thee down in the sunshine." 

He went and lay down, and fell asleep. When 
he awoke, he began to raise himself heavily ; but, 
lo ! the sun had melted all the burnished parts of 
his bonds, the rest dropped from him, and he 
sprung to his feet. For very joy of lightness, he 
ran about the room like a frolicking child. Then 
said the voice once more : 

" Now carve thee out of the wall the figure of a 
man, as perfect as thou canst think and make it." 

" Alas ! " said the prisoner to himself, " I know 
not how to carve or fashion the image of any- 

But as he said it, he turned with a sigh to find 
among the fragments of his fetter:; what piece of 
iron might best serve him for a ckisel. To work 
he set, and many and weary were the hours he 
wrought, for his attempts appeared to him nothing 
better than those of a child, and again and ever 
again as he carved, he had to change his purpose, 




and cut away what he had carved ; for the thing 
he wrought would not conform itself to the thing 
he thought, and it seemed he made no progress in 
the task that was set him. But he did not know 
that it was because his thought was not good enough 
to give strength and skill to his hand, — that it 
seemed too good for his hand to follow. 

One night he wrought hard by the glimmer of 
his wretched lamp, until, overwearied, he fell fast 
asleep, and slept like one dead. When he awoke, 
lo ! a man of light, lovely and grand, who stood 
where he had been so wearily carving the unre- 
sponsive stone ! He rose and drew nigh. Behold, 
it was an opening in the wall, through which his free- 
dom shone ! The man of light was the door into 
the universe. And he darted through the wall. 

As he vanished from his sight, the boy felt the 
wind of the morning lave his forehead ; but with 
the prisoner vanished the vision ; he was alone, 
with the moon shining through the windows. Too 
solemn to be afraid, he crept back to his bed, and 
fell fast asleep. 

In the morning, he knew there had come to him 
what he now took for a strange dream, but he re- 
membered little of it, and thought less about it, 
and the same day the wizard took him home. 

His mother was out when he arrived, and he 
had not been in five minutes before it began to 
rain. It was holiday-time, and there were no les- 
sons, and the school-room, looked dismal as a new 
street. He had not a single companion, and the 
rain came down with slow persistence. He tried 
to read, but could not find any enjoyment in it. 
His thoughts grew more and more gloomy, until 
at last his very soul was disquieted within him. 
When his mother came home and sought him in 
the school-room, she found him lying on the floor, 
sullen and unkind. Although he knew her step 
as she entered, he never looked up ; and when she 
spoke to him, he answered like one aggrieved. 

" I am sorry you are unhappy," said his mother, 
sweetly. "I did not know you were to be home 
to-day. Come with me to my room." 

He answered his mother insolently : 

"I don't want to go with you. I only want to 
be left alone." 

His mother turned away, and, without another 
word, left the room. 

The cat came in, went up to him purring, and 
rubbed herself against him. He gave her such a 

blow that she flew out again, in angry fright, with 
her back high above her head. And the rain 
rained faster, and the wind began to blow, and the 
misery settled down upon his soul like lead. At 
last he wept with his face on the floor, quite overmas- 
tered by the most contemptible of all passions — 

Again the voice of his mother came to him. 
The wizard had in the meantime come to see her, 
and had just left her. 

" Gee up, my boy," she said, in a more com- 
manding tone than he had ever heard from her 

With her words the vision returned upon him, 
clear, and plain, and strong. He started in terror, 
almost expecting to hear the chains rattle about 

" Get up, and make the room tidy. See how 
you have thrown the books about ! " said his 

He dared not disobey her. He sprung to his I 
feet, and as he reduced the little chaos around him | 
to order, first calmness descended, and then shame 
arose. As he fulfilled her word, his mother stood . 
and looked on. The moment he had finished, he 
ran to her, threw his arms about her neck, burst 
into honest, worthy tears, and cried: 

" Mother ! " 

Then, after a while, he sobbed out : 

" I am sorry I was so cross and rude to myj 

She kissed him, and put her arms around him, 
and with his mind's eye he saw the flap of the! 
white dove's wing. She took him by the hand and 
led him to the window. The sun was shining, and] 
a grand rainbow stood against the black curtainj 
of the receding cataract. 

"Come, my child," she said; " we will go out] 
together." "* 

It was long years ere the boy understood a//the| 
meanings of the vision. I doubt if he understands 
them all yet. But he will one day. And I can! 
say no more for the wisest of the readers, or foi 
the writer himself, of this parable. 

The Father of all the boys on earth and ijdl 
heaven be with the boys of America! and where 
they grow up, may they and the men of Englanc 
understand, and love, and help each other 
Amen ! Your friend, 

George MacDonald. 




(A Story for the Kindergarten Children.) 

By H. E. H. 

LITTLE Annie had been quite ill, and her 

, mamma thought best to keep her at home from 

i the Kindergarten ; but she was now almost well 

again, and had been promised she should return 

to her little companions in two more days. Two 

days seems a long time to a little girl, and Annie 

I, seemed so sadly to miss all the pretty amusements 

of the Kindergarten, that mamma tried to think 

curls, her bright blue eyes, and arms and hands 
which would move quite as Alice could move her 
own. Then there were four younger children, and 
even old Peggy — the rag-baby — was made to sit up 
very stiff and straight with the aid of a little string, 
and the lesson began. 

Annie took out the yellow ball and asked the 
babies to point out something in the room the same 

'hat she could do to interest her. At last a very 
right thought came into her head, and she ran 
Uo the hall and whispered it to papa, who was 
1st putting on his hat and coat to go out. 

■i He came back very soon, and brought Annie a 
ox with the Kindergarten colored balls in it. 
" Oh ! " she cried, ••now I can play Kindergar- 
'n with my dolls, for they are really growing up 

'uite ignorant, especially Arabella Louisa, who 
iked me, only yesterday, to cut her apple into 
iree halves." 

All the little stools in the house were soon col- 
cted and brought to the nursery, where they were 
laced in true Kindergarten fashion, and the dolls 
ated on them with heels together and toes turned 
it. Rosie was there with her beautiful golden 

color. Rosie managed, with a little help from her 
teacher, to raise her kid arm and point with her 
dainty finger to the canary-bird. 

" Point to something round like the ball," said 
little Annie, and Arabella Louisa made herself very 
cross-eyed looking down at her gold beads, but was 
too bashful to speak. Next Annie brought out the 
purple ball and laid it down. Then the red and 
green ones came out, and, lastly, the orange and 
blue. Now the teacher began to look very dull, 
even duller than her scholars ; her eyelids began 
to droop, and she spoke very slowly, and said : 
" Children, — can — you — count — the — balls ? " but 
not hearing, any answer, she looked up and found 
they had all disappeared, and that she was no 
longer in the nursery. Before her was a beautiful 




green field dotted all over with buttercups and 
daisies. After she had stepped around carefully 
on the soft grass and smelt the flowers, she heard 
some one call her name, and, looking up, she saw . 
a beautiful castle standing quite alone by itself in 
the air, while a little fairy in a yellow, gauzy dress 
beckoned her to come up. 

"Oh !" thought Annie, "how I should like to 
go and make her a pretty courtesy, but I have no 
wings and cannot fly ! " 

The kind fairy seeing the sad look on the little 
girl's face, cried out: " Wait a minute till we get 
our fairy pipe." 

Annie could but wonder of what use a pipe would 
be, but she had been taught to be patient and wait 
until things were explained to her; so she stood 
very quiet, and soon saw the fairy in yellow come 
floating down to the earth. Behind her came 
another little creature all in red, and still behind 
her a third in a beautiful blue dress. Between 
them they carried a long pipe, much like the one 
Roger, the gardener, smoked ; and when they were 
in front of the little girl they began to blow through 
it very hard, and Annie soon found herself inside a 
a large soap-bubble, and felt that she was gently 
floating upward in her fairy balloon. When she 
reached the castle she touched the thin wall with 
her fingers and it melted away, and left her stand- 
ing in Fairy Land ! 

Her three companions — the fairy in yellow, the 
one in red, and the one in blue — crowded around 
her, and cried "Welcome ! " three times. Then they 
made a place for three more, who tried to smile and 
say "Welcome!" also, but could only look very 
sad and wipe a tiny tear from their little eyes. 

Now, Annie was a kind little girl, and she asked 
them in her gentlest voice what made them sad, 
and they all replied: " Oh, we want some dresses 
so badly ; these are only our little skirts made out 
of cobwebs." 

" What color do you want? " said Annie. 

"Well," said the first, "/ want one of green, 
like the beautiful grass and the leaves of the trees." 

" Ah ! " sighed Annie, " if I could only remem- 
ber how our teacher told us to make green, but I 
am afraid I have forgotten." 

Away ran one of the fairies, and soon came back 
with a little white cap, which she placed upon An- 
nie's head, saying : " This is our thinking-cap, and 
as soon as it touched the child's brown curls, she 
cried : " I 've thought ! If you mix yellow and 
blue together it will make green ; but how can we 
do it ? " 

" Oh, w know ! " all the six cried together, and 
they brought a lily filled with dew, .and the fairy 
with the yellow dress and the one with the blue 
dress dipped their little skirts in it, and they stirred 

the dew around with a tiny wand, and took out a 
lovely green robe, which was put on the fairy who 
had chosen that color, and she began to smile very 

Now, the next one stepped up, and said: "/ 
want a dress of purple like the beautiful swee 
violets which grow in our little gardens." 

As Annie still had the thinking-cap on, she 
quickly told them that red and blue must be mixei 
together, and another lily was brought and the red 
and blue dresses dipped in it ; and after some stir 
ring, cut came a beautiful purple frock, and tin 
fairy who had chosen this smiled even more sweetf 
than the other one. 

Now, Annie turned to the last one and asked lie 
what color she wanted, and she replied : "'/wan 
a dress of orange." 

" I do not need the cap this time," said Annie 
"for I remember that red and yellow will mak 

So a third lily was brought by the fairies, aiv 
when the red and yellow dresses were dipped in il 
out came one of an orange color, and the fairy wh 
put this on really laughed aloud. Then takin 
hold of hands, all the little things began to danc 
gayly around Annie, who was quite tired from he 
long journey, and had asked permission to lie o 
the soft bed of moss. 

She noticed that wherever the red fairy went tl 
green one followed close behind. The blue fail 
and the one with the orange dress kept close 
gether with their arms around each other, and tl 
yellow and purple fairies kissed, and seemed to s; 
such very pretty things of each other that Ann 
thought they must be the complementary colors th 
she had heard her mother talk about. Just now 
grew quite dark, and as Annie looked up at tl 
clouds she felt a rain-drop on her cheek, and loo 
ing at her companions she saw that every dn 
clung to their clothing, and looked like beautil 
diamonds and pearls. The shower lasted only 
little while, and then the sun came out, and t 
fairies all called out : " Good-by, kind Lady Ann 
we are wanted now away up in the sky ! " and th 
floated up one above the other, and stretched thei 
selves out quite long, and arched their bodies ve 
gracefully ; and as Annie turned her face aw; 
from where the sun was setting, she saw in t; 
opposite direction a beautiful rainbow, and s 
knew why the fairies had been called away. 

" Annie ! Annie ! ! " 

" Why, that is my name," thought the little gi 
and she gave a jump and opened her eyes, and 
you believe me, she was back in the nursery, tj 
balls were lying on the floor just as she had I 
them, and the dolls were all staring at her w 
their round glass eyes. 







By Arlo Bates. 

Three travelers, who had been found asleep in 
the royal park, were once brought before King 
Jollimon. In answer to inquiries, they said that 
they were story-tellers, who earned their living by 
relating those tales and legends of which the in- 
habitants of Jolliland are so extravagantly fond. 

" If that be so," said the king, " and if you can 
tell stories worth hearing, you are indeed welcome. 
The court story-teller has just been banished for 
presuming to tell the same story twice, and his 
place is unfilled. It would be a right royal idea to 
1 have three story-tellers instead of one." 

So the three travelers, after having been re- 
freshed with food and drink, were bidden to seat 

themselves at the august feet of King Jollimon, 
that they might prove their power to please the 
royal fancy by strange and unheard tales. 

They were all old and withered ; and the first 
had a crooked back, the second a crooked nose, 
and the third a crooked mouth. He of the crooked 
back began, and told the tale of 

The Raven Maiden. 

There once lived a young and accomplished 
prince called Orca. His father was king over all 
the country and the neighboring provinces, and 
Orca was his only heir. 

The prince was a daring hunter, and went often 




to the royal forests, sometimes in company with 
the lords of the court, but oftener alone. For it so 
happened that the gamekeeper had a young 
daughter, Sipelie, who was as fair as the morning, 
and as modest as she was fair; and the prince, 

be wondered at, for Orca was every inch a prince, 
and a fine, manly fellow beside. And so I warrant 
there was billing and cooing enough at the game- 
keeper's lodge, for when the prince came the game- 
keeper kept discreetly in the background, and 

having seen her, of course fell over head and ears 
in love with her, forgetting all differences of wealth 
and station. As for Sipelie, having no mother to 
tell her better, although she took good care to wait 
a modest while before showing it, she gave away 
her whole heart to him. Nor was this so much to 

Sipelie had no brothers or sisters to be in the way. 
But the course of true love is never without its 
rapids, and it was not long before Orca's visits to- 
Sipelie began to be talked about among the nobles. 
So at last the news came to the ears of the Lady 
Ildea, the prime minister's daughter, who hoped to 

1878. J 



win Prince Orca herself. The Lady Ildea's temper 
was certainly none of the best, nor was her beauty 
at all to be compared with that of the gamekeeper's 
daughter. She had long laid siege to the heart of 
the prince, and she was now convinced that it was 
only on account of the peasant maiden that she 
made so little progress. 

The Lady Ildea was not unskilled in magic, and 
by consultation with divers not very respectable 
spirits, she found means to transform the beautiful 
Sipelie into a raven. Thus it happened that when 
the prince went as usual to visit his beloved, he 
found the cottage empty, and no living thing in 
sight but a raven, which croaked dolorously from 
a neighboring tree. When the gamekeeper ap- 
peared, in answer to Prince Orca's eager questions, 
he could only say that his daughter was missing. 
Together, the two men searched the whole night 
for the lost maiden ; but neither then, nor in any 
after search, could a trace of Sipelie be discovered. 

It is needless to speak of the gamekeeper's grief, 
or the prince's despair. Both refused to be com- 
forted, and the unhappy prince became so pale and 
thin that it was pitiful to see. 

In all his grief and anguish, the Lady Ildea 
showed a deep sympathy, encouraging him to tell 
her all his woes, and if she could not comfort him, 
she at least wept for him, and that was something. 

And so it went on until the prince was taken 
violently ill. The wise men gathered about his 
bed, and at last concluded, after many long and 
tedious days of consultation, that his sickness was 
caused by an evil influence, which they ascribed to 
a raven that had been noticed fluttering continu- 
ally about the palace windows. They farther an- 
nounced that the prince could only be cured by 
the juice of certain wild herbs, which were exceed- 
ingly rare, and which only grew in wild and dan- 
gerous places in the mountains. Messengers were 
dispatched throughout the whole country in search 
of the precious herbs, but the third day a bundle 
of the plants was found on the ledge of the prince's 
window. No one knew whence they came, nor 
did any one notice that the raven sat on a dis- 
tant tree, and watched until the herbs were taken 
in, but then flew silently away, to return no more. 

The prince now rapidly recovered, and was soon 
able to go again into the open air. The lady Ildea 
had been most attentive throughout his illness, and 
on the first day on which he went to the hunt, she 
rode by his side. She was outwardly calm enough, 
but inwardly she was not at all at ease. Only one 
day remained of the duration of the magic spell 
which ensnared Sipelie, and Prince Orca had not yet 
forgotten the peasant maiden, or bound himself to 
Ildea. As they followed the hounds through the 
pleasant forest, the sharp eyes of the lady espied a 

raven fluttering along from branch to branch, always 
keeping near the prince. 

She pointed it out to her companion, saying, 
" Do you see the bird of ill omen ? It is the same 
which brought you illness. Now is your time to 
destroy it." 

Prince Orca raised his bow, but lowered it again, 
for something within stayed his hand, and he said : 
" Let the poor blackamoor live. I have been too 
near death myself to feel like harming it." 

" If you do not care for yourself," said Lady 
Ildea, " others do. It might bring you harm 
again." And with unerring aim she sent an arrow 
flying through the air. The raven fell, uttering a 
last mournful cry. But Lady Ildea was not satis- 
fied. Hastily dismounting, she ran through the 
grass to where the bird lay, and found the body of 
the maiden Sipelie, pierced to the heart, and cov- 
ered with blood. Horror-struck, she turned away, 
but at that instant she trod upon an adder, which 
suddenly darted its fangs into her foot, inflicting a 
mortal wound. 

"And served her right," quoth King Jollimon, 
as the crooked-backed man ended. "The prince 
is left to bury the dead, I suppose. Well, I Ye 
heard worse tales, I 'm sorry to say ; but I generally 
hear better ones. What have you to tell?" he 
added, nodding to the man with the crooked nose. 

"' Mine is a fable, and very instructive," said he ; 
" And the moral " 

" Moral me no morals," interrupted King Jolli- 
mon. "Tell your fable, if you please; but I'll 
draw my own moral as mild as I please." 

Thus admonished, he of the crooked nose told 
the tale of 

The Wise Cat. 

A certain cat set out to seek his fortune, and 
traveled through the whole world. At last he came 
to a country where a cat had never been seen be- 
fore. The inhabitants were at first frightened by 
the strange monster, but having observed Puss 
killing the mice with which the country was over- 
run, they plucked up courage, and approaching 
him, requested that he should follow them before 
the king. Puss complied willingly enough, and 
the end of the matter was that he was installed 
rat-catcher to the king, and a large salary bestowed 
upon him. The faithfulness with which Puss dis- 
charged his duties raised him high in the royal 
regard, and a circumstance soon occurred which 
advanced him still further. The king took his 
naps by an open window, and had a plate of cher- 
ries placed beside him that he might eat them 
when he awoke. A crow from the neighboring 
forest constantly stole the fruit, nor had all the 




efforts of the king's servants succeeded in destroy- 
ing the bird. The cat, however, concealed himself 
in the window-hangings, and pounced upon the 
unlucky marauder, and broke his neck. The king 
was full of gratitude, and ordered that Puss's salary 
be increased. Soon after, a bear came and ravaged 
the king's flocks. His majesty commanded Puss 
to kill him. " I can only do what I am able," 
pleaded the cat; but the king insisted. While 
Puss was coming, Bruin attacked the store of a 
swarm of bees, and was stung to death. " You 
have done as I knew you would, my dear cat," said 
the king, and would listen to no explanations. The 
cat received the Order of the Royal Shoe-string. 

Next an elephant came and ravaged the crops. 
The king sent the cat to attack him. "Alas! I 
can only do what I am able," again pleaded the cat, 
but there was no moving the king. While the cat 
was coming, the elephant fell into a pit and was 

" You have done as I knew you would," said the 
king once more ; and the cat received the Order 
of the Royal Penknife, and the care of the Royal 

A great army marched to subdue the kingdom. 
The king gave himself no uneasiness. " Have we 
not the cat here?" he asked. " My dear, go and 
put these troublesome fellows to flight." 

" Alas ! your majesty," said the unfortunate cat, 
" I can but do as I am able, and luck will turn at 
last;" but the king was stubborn as ever. And 
while the cat was coming, a band of the enemy fell 
upon him and destroyed him ; and they overthrew 
all the kingdom. The king was taken prisoner 
and compelled to feed cats all his life. " That un- 
grateful cat ! " he continually exclaimed. 

"And do you call that a fable?" asked King 
Jollimon. " I should have let you tell the moral, 
that there might have been some good to it. Come, 
you fellow," he said to the crooked-mouthed man, 
" speak quickly. I long to hear another tale, that 
I may forget this." 

And this tale was that of 

Hans and Peter. 

Hans and Peter met one fine morning on the 
way to market. Hans was large and stout ; the 
world always went easily with him ; he troubled 
himself as little as possible about the cares of life, 
and seemed to grow plumper every day. 

Peter, on the other hand, was thin and slim. 
He was continually worrying himself about some 
trifle, and his face grew more and more care-worn 
every day. 

" Good morrow, friend Peter," said plump Hans, 
in a hearty tone of cheer. 

" Good-day, neighbor ! " answered Peter, sol- 

• ■ Why are you so downcast ? " asked Hans. 

"Downcast! Have you no troubles," retorted 
Peter, " that you cannot understand why people 
look downcast ?" 

" I ?" said jovial Hans. " I 've only one trouble 
in the world, and that does not trouble me. My 
wife complains because I have become so stout." 

" Happy man !" exclaimed Peter. " My friends 
complain because I am so thin." 

" My friends say it makes me move too slowly," 
said Hans. 

"My wife upbraids me," returned Peter, "be- 
cause I move so very quickly." 

" Suppose we change bodies ! " said they both in 
a breath. And they changed. 

Again, in a few months, Hans and Peter met 
one fine morning; and Hans was again large and 
stout, while Peter had become thin and slim. 

"What have you done to my body?" asked Hans. 

"What have you done to my body?" asked 

"I was puzzled at first," said Hans, "to know 
whether I was Hans or Peter ; but it soon came 

" At first," returned Peter, " I knew not whether 
I was Peter or Hans, but as you say, it soon came 

" Then the difference," remarked Hans, " is not 
my body." 

" Nor ?ny body," put in Peter. 

" But," said they both, "ourselves !" 

" Worse and worse," said King Jollimon, at the 
conclusion of the remarkable legend. " If there 
were four of you, I shudder to think what a bad 
story the fourth one would tell ! " 

" It is because we did not know your majesty's 
taste," said the man with the crooked back. " If 
you would hear us once more, we should please 
you better." 

"I have heard enough," said the king; but 
upon second thought he consented that they should 
try again. 

And first the crooked-backed man told the tale of 

The Egg-Shell. 

A boy once met a magician, who gave him an 
egg-shell, telling him to place it in his mouth, but 
on no account to break it. The boy was as foolish 
as boys usually are, so he instantly obeyed him, 
without at all stopping to think what the conse- 
quences might be. Immediately his head swelled 
up like an enormous balloon, so that the wind 
nearly blew him away. He managed to catch hold 
of a post and save himself from this fate, and a 


21 I 

crowd began to gather around his head. His body 
was quite out of sight underneath, and only the 
huge head was to be seen. 

As everybody stood staring at the wonderful 
sight, a fly lit on the boy's cheek. He could not 
reach it himself, for his arms would not reach a 
tenth part of the way to his chin ; so he asked one 
of the bystanders to kill the troublesome insect. 
The boy's voice was so smothered by the egg-shell 
that it was long before he could make himself un- 
derstood ; but at last the man got an idea of what 
was wanted, and aimed a severe blow at the fly. 
The insect flew away unharmed, but the boy started 
so suddenly that he bit the egg-shell in two, and 
his head collapsed to its natural size. So there was 
a little boy in the middle of the place, holding on 
by a post, and a crowd of people looking at him 
from a distance. 

"What a disappointment!" said the boy's 
mother. " He was fast becoming remarkable ! But 
then, what a sum his hats would have cost ! After 
all, it is best as it is." 

" And besides," added a neighbor, " how could 
you have got at him to punish him ?" 

" To be sure ! " answered the mother. 

" This is better than the first, because it is 
shorter," said the king ; and the man with a crooked 
nose began the story of 

The Crooked-Nosed Philosopher. 
" There was once a man," he said, " with a nose 
so long that it reached half way round his head, 
and thus the point was continually behind him. 

This not unnaturally caused him a great deal of 
trouble, but in the end was the means of his good 
fortune, as you shall hear. For once, as he sat 
reading, he felt something on the end of his nose, 
and turning round his head he saw a fly sitting on 
the point of it." 

"Saw a fly on the point!" interrupted King 
Jollimon. " What do you take me for, that you 
thus try to impose such stories on me ? Can a man 
see what is behind him ?" 

" Certainly, if he turns round," answered the 
traveler, quite unmoved. 

" If he turns round!" repeated the king, in a 
rage, ' ' can one see the back of his head ? I have 
turned round, but I never could see my back." 

" That is because your majesty always looks 
away from it," replied the other. " If you would 
turn round and look toward the back of your head, 
you would undoubtedly see it." 

" Do you presume to dispute with me ? " screamed 
his majesty, getting very red in the face. He -felt 
sure he was right, but he could not answer the • 
traveler's argument. " Do you presume to dispute 
with me? '"he repeated. "Get out of my sight, 
and if one of you three vagabonds, with your trump- 
ery stories, is found in all the kingdom of Jolliland 
by sunset to-morrow, I '11 have every man of you 
beheaded three times over. A man see his back, 
indeed ! " 

And thus it happened that the tale of " The 
Crooked-Nosed Philosopher" was never concluded, 
which was the greater pity, since, if the end was 
like the beginning, it must have been a very mar- 
velous tale. 


By Paul Fori'. 

When I look at pictures of people of old times, 
I often think what a curious thing it is that the 
only apparent difference between them and the 
people of the present day is to be seen in their 

If we could take a dozen or so of ancient Greeks 
and Romans ; some gentlemen and ladies of the 
middle ages ; a party of our great-grandfathers 
and mothers, and some nice people who arc non- 
living in the next street, and were to dress all the 
women in calico frocks and sun-bonnets, and all 
the men in linen coats and trousers and broad 

straw hats, with their hair cut short ; and were 
then to jumble them all up together, and make 
them keep their tongues quiet, it would be very 
difficult, if not impossible, for a committee, unac- 
quainted with any of the party, to pick out the 
ancients, the middle-agers, or the moderns. 

Lady Jane Grey, or Cornelia, the mother of the 
Gracchi, or Helen of Troy, would not look unlike 
the other women in sun-bonnets and calico frocks ; 
and while there would be a greater difference in 
the men, whose nationality might show more 
strongly, Christopher Columbus, Nero, and Marco 




Bozzaris would be pretty much the same kind of 
fellows as the other men of the party. 

It is certainly a fact that there are a great many 
more points of strong resemblance between the 
people of past ages and ourselves than most of us 
suppose. It is often very surprising, when reading 
of the domestic life of the past, to see how precisely 
similar, in some respects, it was to our own. And, 
as I have said, the people looked, with the excep- 
tion of their clothes, very much as we do — mean- 
ing by " we " the people of the present day, all over 
the world. 

In 1876, at the Centennial Exposition, I saw 
a marble bust — life size — which was a portrait 
of a lady of ancient Rome. There was only the 
head and neck, the hair was dressed very plainly, 
and it was astonishing how well that bust would 
have answered for the portrait of a lady of Thirty- 
fourth street, New York, or the wife of a gentleman 
in Springfield, Ohio. The head and face were just 
such a head and face as I had often seen, and the 
countenance even seemed familiar to me. 

But dress makes all the difference in the world. 
Had I met that lady attired in her flowing Roman 
garments, with her golden head-dress and her san- 
daled feet, I should have had no thought of Thirty- 
fourth street, or Springfield, Ohio. 

And so down the whole line of ages you can tell, 
pretty nearly, when a man or a woman lived, if you 
can but get an idea of his or her clothes. 

The next thing which strikes most of us when 
looking at the pictures of old-time people, is a feel- 
ing of wonder how they ever could have been will- 
ing to make such scarecrows of themselves. 

To be sure, we are willing to admire the flowing 
robes of Greece and Rome, although we feel quite 
sure that our style of dress is much more sensible, 
and we have an admiration for a soldier clad in 
armor, as well as for the noblemen and gentry who 
figured, some hundreds of years ago, in their splen- 
did velvets and laces, their feathers and cocked 
hats, and their diamond-hiked swords. 

But, as a rule, the garments of our ancestors 
appear very ridiculous to us. If we did not have 
good reasons for belief to the contrary, we should 
be very apt to consider them a set of fools. 

It even seems a little wonderful that people 
should be able to invent such curious fashions of 
dressing themselves. 

Think, for instance, of the wife of Jean Van 
Eyck, a celebrated old Dutch painter, who was 
willing to dress her hair so that she looked like a 
cat, and, moreover, had her portrait taken in that 
style, so that future generations might see what a 
guy she was ! 

Yes, the picture painted over five hundred years 
ago hangs to-day in the Academy of Bruges, and 

the staidest little Belgians laugh when they look at 
it. You may see it yourselves some day, but, if 
not, you can at least enjoy this excellent copy, 
which has been engraved for St. Nicholas from 
a photograph of the painting. If you look at 
her face, you will see that in feature she is very 
much like an ordinary woman of the present day. 
There is nothing at all distinctive about her coun- 
tenance. As far as that is concerned, she might 
just as well have lived now as at any other time. 

But if she were to appear in an ordinary evening 
company dressed in the style in which you see her 


in the picture, the difference between her and the 
other ladies would be very striking, to say the least. 

The curious methods of dress in olden times were 
so many, and were of such infinite variety, that I 
cannot even allude to them in a little article like 
this ; but you cannot look at very many pictures 
of the people of by-gone days without seeing some 
costume which will appear quite funny, if not abso- 
lutely absurd. 

You need not go very far back either. What 
could be queerer than the high coat-collars of some 
of your great-grandfathers, which came up under 
their ears, while their throats were wrapped in fold 
after fold of long cravats — or else encircled by a 
hard, stiff stock, — and the hind-buttons of their 
coats were away up in the middle of their backs ! 

But perhaps your great-grandmothers, with the 



waists of their gowns just under their arms, with 
their funny long mittens and their great calash 
bonnets, were just as queer as their husbands. 

Now the question comes very naturally to us : 
Why did these people, as well as the people who 
came before them, dress in such ridiculous fashions? 
We know that many of them were very sensible 
folk, who knew how to do many things as well as 
we can do them, and some things a great deal bet- 
ter. Mentally and physically the most of them are 
not surpassed by the people who live now. Then 
why did not they know enough to dress sensibly 
and becomingly as we do ? 

In reply to this I will say that your great-grand- 
father and your great-grandmother, unless they 
belonged to some religious sect which regulated 
the clothes of its members, would have dressed ex- 
actly as your father and mother now do, if it had 
been the fashion in their day. 

And if you had seen their portraits, dressed in 
clothes of the present day (which, had those old 
people worn them, would have been out of fashion 
long before you were born), you would have thought 
they looked perfectly ridiculous. 

The truth of the matter is, that with a great 
many of us the attractive and desirable qualities of 
clothes depend entirely upon their relations to the 
current styles or fashions. We think everything 
unbecoming and ugly excepting those styles ; and 
no matter how absurd the present fashion may be, 

there are not ten persons out of a thousand who, 
when they become used to them, do not admire 
them and follow them to the extent of their ability. 

There are few of you who are not old enough to 
remember fashions of dress, which at one time you 
and every one else considered very stylish and be- 
coming, and which now would make a perfect 
fright of any one who would be bold enough to 
wear them. 

Indeed, were a fine lady to make her appearance 
in the streets of one of our large cities dressed in the 
hoops and wide skirts in which she was so fashion- 
able and attractive a few years ago, the street boys 
would hoot her, and she might walk about all day 
without meeting a single person who would think 
that there was anything whatever to be said in 
favor of such a costume. 

Of course, some fashions are uglier and more 
absurd than others, and it is not strange that we 
wonder how sensible people could have endured 
them ; but if these very styles were to become 
fashionable again, most of us would adopt them. 

If, in a few years, it should become the fashion 
for ladies to dress their hair like that of the good 
wife of Jean Van Eyck, I feel quite certain that 
nearly all the fashionable ladies you know would go 
about looking very much like cats. This may seem 
a libelous assertion ; but if you will keep a watch 
on the fashions, I think you will find I am correct, 
provided the Van Eyck style comes up. 


By Laura E. Richards. 

I HATE my geography lesson ! 

It 's nothing but nonsense and names ; 
To bother me so every morning, 

It 's realK' the greatest of shames. 

The brooks, they flow into the rivers, 
And the rivers flow into the sea; 

I hope, for my part, they enjoy it, 
But what does it matter to me ? 

Of late, even more I 'vc disliked it, 
And more disagreeable it seems, 

Ever since the sad evening last winter, 

When I had that most frightful of dreams. 

I thought that a great horrid monster 
Stood suddenly there in my room — 

A frightful Geography Demon, 

Enveloped in darkness and gloom ; 

His body and head like a mountain. 

A volcano on top for a hat ; 
His arms and his legs were like rivers, 

With a brook round his neck for cravat. 

He laid on my poor trembling shoulder 
His fingers, cold, clammy and long ; 

And fixing his red eyes upon me, 
He roared forth this horrible song : 




" Come ! come ! rise and come 

Away to the banks of the Muskingum ! 
It flows o'er the plains of Timbuctoo, 
With the peak of Teneriffe just in view. 
And the cataracts leap in the pale moonshine, 
As they dance o'er the cliffs of Brandywine. 

" Flee ! flee ! rise and flee 

Away to the banks of the Tombigbee ! 
We '11 pass by Alaska's flowery strand, 
Where the emerald towers of Pekin stand ; 
We '11 pass them by, and will rest awhile 
On Michillimackinac's tropic isle ; 
While the apes of Barbary frisk around, 
And the parrots crow with a. lovely sound. 

" Hie ! hie ! rise and hie 

Away to the banks of the Yang-tze-ki ! 
There the giant mountains of Oshkosh stand, 
And the icebergs gleam through the falling sand ; 
While the elephant sits on the palm-tree high, 
And the cannibals feast on bad-boy pie. 

" Go ! go ! rise and go 

Away to the banks of the Hoang-ho 

There the Chickasaw sachem makes his tea, 
And the kettle boils and waits for thee. 
We '11 smite thee, ho ! and we '11 lay thee low, 
On the beautiful banks of the Hoang-ho ! " 

These terrible words were still sounding 

Like trumpets and drums through my head, 
When the monster clutched tighter my shoulder, 

In terror, I clung to the bed-post ; 

But the faithless bed-post, it broke. 
I screamed out aloud in my anguish, 

And suddenly — well, I awoke. 

He was gone. But I cannot forget him, 

The fearful Geography Sprite. 
He has my first thought in the morning, 

He has my last shudder at night. 

Oo you blame me for hating my lesson? 

Is it strange that it frightful should seem ? 
Or that I more and more should abhor it 

Since I had that most horrible dream ? 

By Gustavus Frankenstein. 


When I reached the crowd of monkeys who 
were making such a noise and were evidently in 
such trouble, I soon saw what was the matter. A 
very large monkey had his claws fastened in the 
back of a much smaller one, and was biting him in 
the shoulder — the little fellow shrieking, and the 
others dreadfully excited, yet hesitating to come to 
the rescue. 

What are monkeys compared to a man ? I rushed 
in, seized the ruffian by the throat, which loosened 
his hold upon the weaker party, and hurling him 
with all my force against the ground, broke his 
ugly iikull upon the rock on which it struck. 

Then, :>uch a yell of delight as went up from 
that motley monkey crew ! It was simply in- 
describable. This was immediately followed by an 
immense amount of jabbering, as they gathered in 
little groups, no doubt discussing the merits of the 
action and the valor of the hero. Doubtless the 
monkey I had slain was a great tyrant over the 

others, by reason of his superior size and strength, 
and they were congratulating one another upon 
their deliverance from his hated rule. 

His last victim — poor little fellow ! — I raised from 
the ground, washed his wounds, and, gathering 
some plantain-leaves, placed them carefully over 
the lacerated flesh, and bound them on snugly and 
firmly with strips of palm-leaf. 

The little creature looked at me very affection- 
ately, evincing by his expression the deepest grati- 

As he was in a very sad plight indeed, I nursed 
and petted him until quite late in the afternoon, 
his companions not far off observing my move- 
ments with great interest. At last I said to the 
wounded monkey : 

" Now, little fellow, go your way in peace. Take 
care of yourself, and you will get well. Good- 
bye ! " 

I took my basket and started up the hill. Occa- 
sionally I looked back to see what he was doing, 

i8 7 8.] 



and each time his gaze was fixed on me ; and when 
I had entirely lost sight of him, I began to regret 
that 1 had not taken him with me and cared for 
him until he should get well. 

Pippity, as I returned, was overjoyed to see me. 
He had certainly grown anxious at my long ab- 

" Pippity," I said, " I shall not go down again 
into the valley for a long time. We have had 
cocoa-nuts enough lately; let us enjoy that which 
is around us." 

But, after a couple of months had passed away, 
knowing that Pippity was very fond of the cocoa- 
nuts (and I, too, liked very much the milk they 
contained), I determined to go and get some more. 

I was getting the nuts down from the trees as 
best I could, when, all at once, I was surprised at 
their falling around me fast and thick, and on look- 
ing up, there was a little monkey throwing them 
down ! At first, I thought he was throwing them 
at me ; but he stopped when he saw me looking 
up, and I went on gathering and putting them in 
the basket. Not one of them that had been thrown 
down had hit me, so I concluded that the monkey 
had no evil design, but that, on the contrary, he 
was trying to do me a good turn. 

" That 's a pretty good sort of monkey," I 
thought, "and I would n't mind meeting him any 
time I come down. He has saved me to-day con- 
siderable trouble." 

Then, up the mountain I went, and got back 
home quite early, which seemed to surprise Pippity 
not a little. 

The next time I went down, the same thing hap- 
pened again ; and so on for a number of times. 

Once, after taking up my basket and starting for 
home, I noticed a little monkey (I thought it was 
the very one that had so kindly thrown me the 
cocoa-nuts) following me at some distance. The 
next trip I made, this occurred again, and this time 
the monkey kept following me nearer and nearer, 
until, finally, I heard at my heels a slight squeal, 
and on looking around there was the little creature. 

"Why, monkey!" I exclaimed, "what in the 
world do you want ? " 

He stood there, trembling somewhat, I thought ; 
but quickly he leaped on my back, and put his 
arms around my neck. I was a little frightened, 
at first ; but. taking hold of his hands, I gently 
loosened his hold and brought him around in front 
of me, when, holding him out to view, I saw a scar 
on his shoulder. 

" Oh ! it 's you, is it ? " I cried. " Then it 's you 
who have been throwing me the cocoa-nuts all this 
time. It's plain you haven't forgotten a favor." 
I set him on the ground. '■ Go, join your com- 
rades, and, whenever you feel disposed to throw 

me cocoa-nuts, I shall always accept the kindness 
as a very great favor." 

But monkey would n't go and join his comrades, 
and persisted in following me. I did not want to 
speak unkind words or use harsh measures toward 
him, although I tried everything I could think of 
to induce him to leave me ; but all my efforts to 
get rid of him failed. He followed me home. 

Pippity was a little surprised to see two individuals 
instead of one approaching, and eyed the stranger 
with much curiosity. 

After we had partaken of refreshments, I ad- 
dressed our guest in the following words : 

" Monkey, since you have followed me, and 
seem inclined to join our society, I shall not object 
to your remaining, provided you behave yourself 
properly ; and I have no doubt that my worthy 
friend to whom I have had the high honor of intro- 
ducing you, will heartily second me in any effort 
looking toward your comfort and general well- 
being. You may make this your home, if it so 
pleases you. If you want to leave us to-morrow, go. 
If you would like to remain with us until death 
shall us three part, you are welcome." 

I was curious to see how Pippity would treat the 
new-comer. It was to be expected that he would 
show some signs of jealousy, but his was a noble 
nature, and scorned to descend to such mean con- 
duct. He and the monkey were almost immedi- 
ately on the best of terms, at which I was much 
pleased, for I would not for a moment have endured 
any quarreling in my household. 

When our cocoa-nuts were nearly all gone, I 
went down for some more. It was not long after 
this that, one fine day, the monkey was missing. 
Neither did he come back the next day. About 
noon, I said to Pippity : 

" Pippity, we have but few cocoa-nuts left. To- 
morrow I shall go down and get another supply ; 
and who knows but I may meet our friend the 
monkey ? Although he was at any time at liberty 
to leave us if he liked, yet I confess I have a desire 
to know what has become of him. Perhaps some 
accident has befallen him." 

While I was yet speaking, a cocoa-nut rolled into 
our house. 

"Why, what's that?" I exclaimed; and. look- 
ing out, there was the little monkey, just without 
the entrance, in the very act of throwing a cocoa- 
nut into the cavern ! Going toward him, I saw 
him catch one thrown to him by another monkey. 

Now, here was a most singular performance, 
and one which certainly demanded investigation. 
Where did the second monkey get his cocoa-nut ? 
I went toward him, and found that he caught a 
cocoa-nut thrown to him by a third monkey about 
fifteen "feet beyond him. 




As the nuts kept coming all the time, the sight 
was highly interesting. 

To ascertain the true state of the case I went 
farther; found a fourth monkey, then a fifth, then 
a sixth ; and as I proceeded I left one monkey only 
to find another farther on, all about fifteen feet one 
from the other, some perched on rocks, some on 
trees, forming a zigzag line down the mountain, 
all busily catching and throwing the cocoa-nuts in 
the most remarkably systematic fashion. There 
must have been sixty monkeys or more engaged in 
this delightful occupation. 

I went back and found a large pile of the fruit 
in our house; and thinking we had enough for a 
long time to come, I would have liked to be able 
to make our little monkey understand that we 
wanted no more. The parrot had learned to dis- 
cover my wishes very well, but with the monkey I 
supposed it would be a matter of some difficulty to 
make him comprehend me. He seemed to divine 
my thoughts, however, or else his own good sense 
came to his aid, for, almost immediately, he gave 
a little shriek, which the next monkey took up, and 
which went along the line until the sounds died 
away in the distance. After this a few more nuts 
rolled into the house, then the throwing and catch- 
ing ceased, and the monkeys which had been in 
sight disappeared, with the exception of our little 
friend, who sprang, all elasticity and animation, 
into our domicile. 

" Now, come, my little friend, sit up and have 
something to eat," I said. " You must be hungry 
after the expenditure of so much energy. We had 
given you up for lost ; but now, after this evidence 
of your good-will toward us, we are satisfied that 
you really intend to remain with us." 

I wished the monkey was able to relate to us how- 
he managed to assemble so many of his friends, 
and to get them to act with such perfect accord; 
and how, in the first place, he could make them 
understand what he wished them to do. Of course, 
not being able to talk, he could give us no explana- 
tion of how the thing was brought about. I could 
therefore only form an opinion in the matter, 
which was as follows : 

Our little friend was undoubtedly a great favorite 
with his fellows, and although he was as gentle as 
a kitten he was not without power, and his com- 
panions were ever ready to serve him out of sheer 
good-will. When, therefore, after he had been res- 
cued from the ferocious monkey, his appreciation of 
a kind action naturally enkindled in him a desire to 
return the favor in some way, he threw me the 
cocoa-nuts from the trees ; and, although I believe 
that from the first he felt an ardent desire to be 
near his benefactor, his natural modesty prevented 
his thrusting himself upon me without considerable 

preliminary skirmishing. His fellow monkeys, 
keenly sensible of his noble qualities, and happy in 
having got rid of the odious despot who had so 
long oppressed them, were only too glad to aid him 
in any reasonable and honorable project which 
might benefit the hero who had slain their hated 
ruler. But by what queer signs and by what sort 
of jabbering our little monkey had made his 
wishes known to his companions, only he and they 

I now took occasion to tell our four-handed friend 
that he must have a name. 

" ' Grilly ' you shall be called," I said; "and, 
although you cannot utter our names, common 
politeness requires that you be informed of them. 
There is Pippity, the parrot, and here am i, Frank, 
the man." 

As Pippity was a good scholar, while Grilly yet 
remained uneducated, it was a source of grief to 
me that the monkey continued in his deplorable 
ignorance in the midst of such enlightened society. 

What was to be done ? 

Talk he could not. There was not the slightest 
use in making any effort in that direction, because 
nature had failed to furnish him with the organs 
needed for speaking articulately. 

I had noticed frequently, when going down into 
the valley, a certain rock which fell in pieces by 
splitting off in smooth plates; and another kind 
which lay scattered about in small fragments that 
would make marks like chalk-marks. This sub- 
stance was of a reddish color, and, on the purplish 
surface of the thin slabs of the harder rock, it 
made very clear, distinct lines. 

On one of these slabs I wrote the alphabet in 
large letters, and began by teaching Pippity his 
A B C's. The next step was to instruct Grilly how 
to hold the pencil. Taking his hand in mine, I 
guided it in making the letters. He was rather 
slow at first in comprehending the science or ac- 
quiring the knack of tracing the letters; but con- 
tinued application will accomplish wonders even 
with a monkey ; and in a few weeks' time Grilly 
would make any letter at command. I got Pippity 
to call out the alphabet while Grilly wrote. Thus 
they taught each other — Pippity addressing the 
monkey's ear, and Grilly appealing to the parrot's 

After they were thus well grounded in the alpha- 
bet, I made them spell short and familiar words. 
I would spell the words to Pippity, and he would 
repeat them in a loud, clear voice to Grilly, whose 
province of course it was to write them in a bold, 
legible hand, whilst the parrot kept his eye sharply 
on the writing ; and if, perchance, the monkey 
should make a mistake, it was expected of him to 
call out immediately — " Error ! " 

i8 7 8.] 



As Pippity had, a great many phrases and a vast 
number of nouns at command, and began pretty 
rapidly to comprehend the science of English or- 
thography, he was soon able to give out the words 
to Grilly without my help; though he did make 
some funny mistakes, for which, however, the poor 

we found in our dominions. The two agreed very 
well, and the one furnished what the other lacked. 
The parrot could talk but not write ; the monkey 
could write but not talk. 

But it occurs to me that two such extraordinary 
characters deserve description. 

bird was in no way responsible, but which made 
me laugh at him nevertheless. 

It may seem strange to some that a monkey 
could be taught to write. With such persons I 
will hold no argument. All I have to say is : Get 
a monkey, and try it. 

Grilly as well as Pippity became in course of 
time quite a fine scholar, and he, too, learned the 
names of the plants and many other objects which 
Vol. V. — 15. 

First come, first served. The external appear- 
ance of Pippity was gorgeous in the extreme. His 
wings, green, red-spotted, were tipped with golden 
yellow, while the most delicate flush of iridescent 
colors suffused his back, neck and breast; his toes 
in pairs, two forward and two back, like those of 
all other parrots ; a bill and tongue exactly formed 
for speech ; eyes in observation keen ; and a bear- 
ing dignified and commanding;. > 




Grilly, of course, had not so gay an exterior ; yet 
he had a handsome clothing of soft, fine hair; a 
gentle, intelligent eye ; a head, exceedingly well 
formed, round and full, with prominent forehead; 
handsome moustache and full stylish whiskers ; an 
expression winning and full of animation ; a car- 
riage elegant and graceful ; and, withal, he was 
astonishingly expert with tail and hands and feet. 

The time now coursed smoothly and happily 
along, Pippity entertaining us with his lively prattle, 
and Grilly, full of his antics and his learning, 
affording a never-failing fund of amusement. Nor 
did he ever omit, when the supply of cocoa-nuts 
was about exhausted, to go down and assemble his 
tribe, who forthwith took their places up the height, 
passed the nuts one to another, and, when they 
deemed we had enough, dispersed to their own 
wild homes of sylvan shade. 

One day Grilly was amusing himself turning 
over some stones that lay in a little heap in one 
corner of our vast chamber. I had always thought 
it strange that they were the only loose stones to be 
found either in the cavern or in the neighborhood, 
but had never troubled myself any further about 
them. Seeing Grilly busy with them, I thought I 
would join him in his work or sport, and in a little 
time we had the pile reduced to the floor. There, 
I saw, was a square slab, having on it certain char- 
acters and a drawing of a serpent held firmly in 
the talons of a condor. These symbols excited my 
curiosity not a little, and I noticed that the stone, 
which was about three feet square, was loosely rest- 
ing in its place. I managed to pry it up, and 
found a dark cavity beneath. It was nearly square, 
but of its depth I could not judge, owing to the 
darkness. To satisfy myself on this point, I got a 
very long stem of one of those gigantic grasses that 
grow in the tropics, and, letting it down, found the 
hole to be about forty feet deep. I felt a great 
desire to descend into this pit, but dared not venture 
for fear of the foul and deadly air that might have 
to be encountered below. Such things as matches, 
of course, we had not, nor any fire whatever. 
I therefore delayed the experiment for several 
days, with the expectation that the air would im- 
prove considerably in that time. Then, by bracing 
my hands and feet against the sides, I descended 
slowly, and found the air good enough to breathe 
freely, which emboldened me to go to the bottom. 
There was just light enough to perceive that on 
one side was an opening about six feet in height, 

and somewhat more than a foot in width; and I 
could see rough steps leading down a slight de- 
scent. I followed them cautiously, until I came to 
a level place, which I found to be a passage about 
three feet wide and higher than 1 could reach. 

It was so dark here that I could no longer see, 
when, feeling the rock on either side, I came to a 
place where there was a recess about three feet 
above the floor of the passage. Raising myself 
into this recess, I found it to be about four feet in 
height. This led back a considerable distance,— 
how far I never discovered, — and as I was groping 
about, being obliged to stoop all the time, I stum- 
bled over something that rolled and rattled like a 
bone. I felt for it, and found it to be one, and 
with it were a number of others. As far as I 
could judge in the darkness, they were the skeleton 
of a human being. 

How came these there ? Was this a tomb ? 

I felt about for more relics, going hither and 
thither in the earnestness of quest, but found no 

I had now been in this dungeon upward of an 
hour, and felt inclined to return as speedily as pos- 
sible to the daylight. I searched for the place 
where I had got up from the narrow passage. I 
groped this way and that ; and this had to be done 
with precaution, for who could tell where I might 
not step off suddenly and fall to some great depth ? 
Yet I could find nothing that promised to lead me 
to the passage by which I had come. 

Where was I ? What was I to do ? Remaining 
still would never do ; to keep moving, moving, was 
the only course to pursue. I had, I knew not how, 
emerged from that low-roofed recess, and stood 
now in what seemed to be a vast chamber where 
there were neither sides nor roof. I hallooed that 
I might hear the echo from its walls, and perhaps 
in that way find them. I was startled, almost 
frightened, at the solemn mocking sounds that 
reverberated through the lonely cavern. I grew 
fearful of my own voice. 

At last I sank down -exhausted, and slept. I 
awoke, and groped about once more. This oc- 
curred again and again. How often I lay down to 
sleep I cannot tell. Sometimes I thought of the 
skeleton I had stumbled over, and wondered if my 
bones, too, would here find their resting-place. 
Then I thought of the grand, lofty mountain over- 
head. What a stupendous monument ! But what 
would I not have given for deliverance from it ! 

(To be continued.) 




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By J. H. Hubbard. 

The sport of sailing on the ice has within a few 
years attracted considerable attention on our north- 
ern rivers and lakes, and seems likely to increase. 
It is an amusement well adapted to big boys, being 

hour with a good wind Some large ones, strange 
as it may seem, can sail, with a wind on the beam, 
actually faster than the wind which is blowing. This 
fact is attested bv the highest scientific authorities. 

exciting, requiring skill, and certainly not more 
dangerous than skating. It is even more fasci- 
nating than yachting, without the danger which 
always attends the latter pursuit. A small ice-boat 
that a boy can build will sail ten to twenty miles an 

Having seen some unsuccessful attempts at ice- 
boats by boys in various places, I propose to tell 
you how to build one, at a small expense, that will 
sail well, and give you a great deal of sport. 

The directions and measurements here given are 

i8 7 8.] 



the result of careful experiments and some failures. 
Fig. I is an elevation, Fig. 2 a ground-plan of the 
frame, and Fig. 3 a section of a runner. Get 
a spruce plank, A, 12 feet long, 6 inches wide, 2 
inches thick. This is the backbone of the struct- 

The mast is a natural spruce stick, 13 feet long, 
shaved down to 3j^ inches at butt, 2 % inches at 
the lop. 

The boom is 13 % feet long, 2 inches thick at each 
end, and a little thicker in the middle. It is fast- 

ure. Cut near one end of it a hole two inches 
square to receive the foot of the mast. 

Take two oak cross-bars, E E, 8 feet long, 4 inches 
deep, 2 inches thick. The cross-bars are bolted 
to A, one foot apart, the forward one a foot from 
mast-hole. This distance is best. 

Next get one oak plank, C, 16 inches long, 3^ 
inches deep, 2 inches thick. 

The hard-wood piece, D, is for tiller, 4 feet long, 
2 inches wide, 1 inch thick. This is to be set into 
the top of plank c, and fastened there with screws. 
To each end of it is attached a rope, which runs 
over a sheave fastened to the cross-bar. C D, and 
the ropes, / /, constitute the steering apparatus. 
Two boards, F F, each 11 feet long, 8 inches wide, 
%-inch thick, are planed, and the edges matched 
together, at the stern. They are nailed to the 
plank, A, and the cross-bars, E E, as shown in Fig. 
2. Four blocks, each 3 inches thick, must be put 
under them where they lie over the cross-bars. A 
board a foot long, ^j-inch thick, must also be put 
under F F at the stern. 

Six slats, G G, as long as may be needed, 2 
inches wide, ^-inch thick, are nailed over A. and 
under F F. 

ened to the mast by an iron eye, screwed into the 
mast, and a hook in the end of the boom. The 
sprit is 10 feet long, iyi inches diameter, shaved 
to 2^-inch for 2 inches at each end. 

The iron collar, i, through which the mast is 
inserted loosely, stands two feet above the top of 
plank, A. It is supported by three iron braces, // h 
h, and is bolted to the tops of them. The braces 
are )l-'vac\\ round iron, and bolted to the frame as 

The hind-runner block, C, is fastened to A by a 
strong iron, m, as shown in Fig. 1. It allows the 
runner to rock up and 
down, and to be turned 
sidewise by the tiller. 
A must be plated with 
iron top and bottom _ 
where in goes through, 
that the runner may not 
" wobble. i 

The construction of the runners, J J J, must be 
attended to with the greatest care, as upon these, 
in a great measure, will depend the success of your 
boat. Get a square bar of cast steel, 6 feet long, 
cut off 22 inches for third runner, and divide the 





rest in halves, across. Shape two forward run- 
ners and one hind one as shown in Fig. I. The 
bearing surface is a right-angled edge, as shown in 
Fig. 3. This sharp edge holds the ice firmly with- 
out much friction. Holes are bored two inches up 
into the cross-bars, near their ends, and the run- 
ners driven in and fastened with rivets. After the 
runners are forged, they should be finished with a 
file and emery paper if not perfectly smooth. The 
front turn must be long and gradual like a skate, 
two-thirds the length, however, flat on the ice. 
The running edges should not be too sharp. They 
will project 2J2 or three inches below the bottom 
of the wood. 

For the sail get twenty yards, three-quarters of a 
yard wide, of heavy drilling. The dimensions are : 
Head, 5 feet; foot, 13 feet; foreleach, 10 feet; 
afterleach, 14^ feet. Make these measurements 
on a floor, and mark the outlines with a chalk-line. 
Cut the after-breadth first, and the others to match. 
Lap the breadths 1 inch. Allow an inch all around 
for a hem. The breadths should be basted before 
stitching. . Put two rows of stitching where the 
breadths lap. Look out for puckering. Put a 
narrow hem clear around the sail. Then stitch a 
3/8-inch rope around the hem. Make a loop at 
the peak to put the end of sprit into. Draw the 

rope tight along the boom, and fasten it through a 
hole in the end. Fasten the throat of sail tight to 
the top of the mast. Cut a number of short pieces 
of heavy twine, and lace the sail, at intervals of a 
foot, to the boom and mast. Fasten a becket or 
loop of rope at a suitable position on the mast, to 
set the heel of the sprit into. Rig main-sheet over 
two sheaves, as shown ; it brings less strain on the 
boom, and clears the skipper's head in tacking. 
Make a good, large wooden cleat to belay it to. 
The cost of materials will be about as follows : 

Boards, plank and mast $5 - oo 

Iro.i work 6.00 

Twenty yards Drilling 2 -75 

Four single-sheave galvanized pulley-blocks at 35 c 1 .40 

(May be omitted by using leather straps ) 
R pes, etc 85 

Total $16 00 

A boat built as above will sail nearly as close to 
the wind as a good cat-boat. It is managed much 
the same. Don't turn too short in coming about. 
Jibe when you like without fear of capsizing. Your 
boat will carry three persons in a light wind, — 
more if it blows fresh. Rig it neatly, and try to 
make a finished thing all through. Your ice-boat 
will then be more than a boy's plaything, and will 
be admired by old and young. 

There once was a man with a child 

Who, the neighbors said, never had smiled ; 

But the father said, " See ! 

Smile in this way, like me, 
And then folks will know when vou 've smiled.' 




By Ella A. Drinkwater. 

Most young people's Christmas commences the 
night before ; so did Debby's. She had just settled 
down in Blanket street, and fallen into the sleep of 
tired, healthy girlhood, when she was aroused by 
her mother's irritable voice screaming up the stair- 

" Debby ! Debby ! " she called. " Get up quick 
and help me pick these turkeys. Your father 's 
made up his mind to sell them dead weight, and 
we 've got to pick them to-night, so .he can take 
them to the hotel early in the morning. Do you 
hear me, Debby ?" 

" Yes, ma'am," answered Debby, scrambling 
out of her warm nest to the square of rag carpet 
before her bed. 

Four minutes later she felt her way down- 
stairs and opened the kitchen door into a room 
filled with steam, and the peculiar smell of scalded 

" There 's seven to do," her mother said, bend- 
ing over the brass kettle on the stove to draw from 
it a dripping turkey. " Yours arc all scalded. Go 
to work." 

Debby buttoned on a large apron, seated herself 
with a tin pan in her lap containing a turkey, and 
then began quickly to pluck off its feathers, laying 
them to dry on a religious newspaper spread on the 
table beside her. 

Mrs. Blanchard soon sat down at the other side 
of the table, and began to pick and talk as fast as 
fingers and tongue would allow. 

What did possess Mr. Blanchard to change his 
mind, and give them so much extra trouble, she 
could not conceive ; and selling them to Tate, too, 
when he might have made a quarter of a cent more 
a pound if he had let Morris have them. And then 
those hoop-poles ! He might have made she 
did n't know how much if he had taken her advice, 
and kept them a week longer. 

As for the potatoes, they had turned out so 
small, and the corn was so short in the ear, that 
the land only knew where the money to get them all 
something to wear was to come from. Not that 
she cared for dress, for had n't she worn the same 
bonnet and shawl to church until she was ashamed 
to show her face there? As for the sewing society, 
she was a master hand at cutting and planning, 
and she could go as well as not, too, now that 
Debby was quite old enough to take care of the 
baby, and get the supper ready for her father and 
the boys; but not a step was she going to sit next 

Mrs. Williams with her black silk, and Mrs. White 
with her handsome alpaca, although their hus- 
bands' farms were no larger than Mr. Blanchard's: 
and for the life of her she could not understand 
why she should not dress as well when she worked 
twice as hard as they did. 

To all of which Debby listened with a sinking 
heart and great sobs in her throat, wondering why 
theyshould be such an unhappy family when every 
one around them appeared so glad. 

Did it really make people so happy, this Christ- 
mas-day that they talked so much about in Sunday- 
school? That was a beautiful hymn that they 
sung last Sunday ; she repeated one verse softly to 
herself while the stream of her mother's talk ran on: 

"Jesus is our childhood's pattern, 

Day by day, like us, he grew ; 
He was little, weak and helpless, 

Tears and smiles, like us, he knew; 
And he feeleth for our sadness, 
And he shareth in our gladness.'" 

With a comforted feeling she pushed back her 
hair with her feathery hand, heartily wishing that 
all the people who ate their turkeys would be com- 
fortable, and have clothes to wear and go to sewing 
societies whenever they liked. 

The clock ticked loudly, the fire died away while 
Mrs. Blanchard enlarged upon the trials of her 
life, and, despite the refrain in her heart — 

" And he feeleth for our sadness, 
And he shareth in our gladness" — 

Debby's eyes were as heavy with tears as with 
sleepiness when the last plump turkey lay on the 
table plucked of his feathers, just as the clock was 
striking eleven. 

'• Go to bed, child, and I '11 clear up the mess," 
her mother said, when Debby sprang up and 
straightened herself with a long sigh. "' I 'm sure 
your father ought to give you something for keep- 
ing out of your bed so late, when he is sleeping as 
innocent as the baby this minute, I '11 warrant." 

As Debby had a way of only thinking her replies, 
her answer was to wash her hands at the sink and 
run upstairs with joyful feet, thinking. " How 
splendid it will be if he gives me some money ; 
then I can spend it at the Fair to-morrow night." 

But even rose-colored visions could not keep the 
weary child awake ; she was not conscious of touch- 
ing the pillow, and thought of nothing until the 
clock striking six awoke her to remember, with a 




thrill, that it was Christmas-day, — the day of the 

But there would be no presents or merry greet- 
ings in her home, for she could not remember ever 
hearing either father or mother wish any of the 
family " Merry Christmas!" and a little candy on 
that day was among the dimmest pictures of her 

" I '11 make the fire, so that mother can sleep 
a little longer,'' she decided, lighting her candle, 
and beginning to dress with shivering alacrity. 
" And I '11 be as helpful as I can all day, and 
perhaps father will give me some of the turkey 

With shaking fingers she kindled the wood fire, 
and had the kettle boiling and the griddle heated 
for the cakes, when her mother came out of the 
bedroom, asking her what had wakened her so 
early, and telling her to dress the baby while she 
finished getting the breakfast ready. 

Debby willingly brought the screaming baby out 
to the fire, where she washed and dressed him, 
soothing him with many motherly little airs. Sam 
and Jim ran down-stairs to hover over the red-hot 
stove ; the father came in, bringing the pail of milk, 
stamping his feet, his beard white with his frozen 
breath ; then they all sat down to breakfast by 
candle-light, and no one would have supposed, 
from their conversation, that they had ever heard 
of Christmas-day. 

Immediately after breakfast Mr. Blanchard hur- 
ried away to dispose of his turkeys, taking the boys 
with him ; Mrs. Blanchard heated the brick oven 
preparatory to a morning's baking, and Debby flew 
about as busily as the bee she represented, washing 
dishes, making beds, peeling vegetables, and tend- 
ing the baby, lightening her labor with the thought 
of the money her father might possibly give her. 

When it was time for him to return, she deter- 
mined to keep in sight, as a kind of hint that some 
of the money should be given to her; not that she 
would ask him for it, — her askings were only for 
favors to the boys, made in much fear and inward 
shrinking; but she would just wait around and 
remind him by "her presence that she had helped 
pick the turkeys. 

But, with no understanding of the feverish anx- 
iety that filled the heart of the little maiden who 
was moving briskly about the pleasant kitchen 
dishing up the dinner, Mr. Blanchard threw open 
the door with a chuckle. "Took every one of 
them and paid the money down," he announced, 
coming to the fire. " Got more than I expected, 
too, for his scales made them weigh more than 
ours, so I gained just thirty cents." 

Debby thought that her heart stopped beating 
while she stood bewildered in the middle of the 

floor with a dish of potatoes in her hand, waiting 
to hear her father say that the extra money should 
be hers ; but he merely asked if dinner were ready, 
and why she moved so slowly ; guessed that sitting 
up so late made her lazy. 

All her castles built of ice-cream, candy, pin- 
cushions, and fancy needle-books, fell to the ground 
with a crash as she set the dish on the table, leav- 
ing her with no appetite for dinner, not even for 
the first pumpkin-pie of the season. 

She sat at the table absently tasting the savory 
pork stew, believing that no one else was ever as 
miserable as she, and that she should never feel 
like laughing again, when suddenly she remem- 
bered that she had twenty-four cents change left 
from the dollar that her father gave her to buy 
school-books, and she would — yes — she would give 
it to him as she was starting for the Fair, and per- 
haps he would say that she might keep it. 

So she was all ready to laugh when Jim asked if 
the little boys in the big cities wore muzzles like the 
dog he had seen in town this morning, and when 
her mother asked if she would take pie, her " yes" 
was emphatic ; for a world of trouble had rolled off 
her heart, and she was her hopeful self again. 

After the dinner-dishes were washed, and the 
baby trotted away to dream-land, Debby stole up to 
her room to look over the dress she was to wear in 
the evening; as the ruffles in neck and wrists were 
fresh, she found there was nothing for her to do 
but brush it and lay it out on the bed. Still she 
lingered with an undefined feeling that it was 
Christmas-day everywhere else, and if she could 

All the week, while seeing and hearing about 
the presents the school-girls were making, she had 
been full of vague longings to do something for 
some one ; but she had neither money nor material, 
and was not at all sure how a present from her 
would be received by her father and mother. 
" Perhaps I might make a pin-ball," she thought, 
beginning- to search through the old chest of 
drawers that stood at the foot of her bed. 

In the lowest drawer were odds and ends that 
she had been collecting for years, and from one 
corner, carefully wrapped up, she drew a square of 
black cloth in which was worked in wool a bunch 
of rose-buds, pink, white and yellow, surrounded 
by their green leaves. A lady who had boarded 
with them the last summer had begun it for a pair 
of slippers, but after making two or three mistakes 
on it, had given it to Debby. 

" I wonder if I could make it into a cushion for 
mother? " soliloquized Debby, turning it around in 
her red fingers. "Mrs. Williams said old flannel 
was good to stuff them with, and I can bind it 
with " she leaned forward and picked among 

i8 7 8.] 



"^"^Mjrniu"'!' .':' ><■■■ ■W:VW;' l ^ : '' v t\\^''- : -^ "' ->;; ; v ■>, .:' \^^ , v:''' v 'yi; ; ;-'^?v^f..;ji , i , fj 


her bunch of faded ribbons. " There is nothing frosty window, and cutting the cloth in the shape 

nice enough," she sighed; "but this green will of a diamond, she sewed it together like a bag, 

have to do." filled it with flannel, and hurriedly stitched on the 

Wrapping herself in a quilt she sat down on the faded green ribbon as a binding, 
rounded top of a hair-covered trunk, close to the These rosebuds were a wonderful work of art to 




Debby, and one of her great treasures ; it would 
have been a " perfectly lovely cushion," she thought, 
if the binding had only been new and the silk with 
which she stitched it green instead of blue ; and it 
was so delightful to make presents. Next year she 
would have a present for every one in the house ; 
she wondered why she had never thought of it 

"And He feeleth for our sadness, 
And He sharcth in our gladness," 

sprang from her heart to her lips, and she hummed 
it over and over all the three-quarters of an hour 
that she was at work. When the cushion was fin- 
ished, she held it out in different positions, trying 
to decide in which it would look best when she should 
present it; and then she ran down-stairs, possessed 
with such a variety of feelings that she could scarcely 
speak when she opened the kitchen door. 

Her mother was ironing, with her back toward 
her. Debby was glad that no one else was there. 

" I Ye made you a Christmas present, mother," 
she said, timidly, laying it on the ironing-board. 

" So tliat 's what you have been doing in the cold 
so long," her mother answered, without pausing in 
her work. " Miss Holmes was a beautiful hand 
with her needle, and how she did fuss over that ! 
But you might just as well have made it some other 
day ; I was in no hurry for it. Put it in my bureau- 
drawer, and come and mend these blankets your 
father has just brought in. He thinks that we have 
so little to do that we can sew for the horses right 
in the midst of everything." 

So Debby laid the cushion away, glad that it had 
met with no worse reception, and sat down in a cor- 
ner near the stove to mend the coarse, dirty horse- 
blankets. She usually disliked it exceedingly ; but 
her little attempt at making Christmas presents had 
so warmed her heart, and her head was so full of 
the Fair, that it did not now seem so uncongenial, 
and she was really surprised when the last stitch 
was taken. 

" You are almost as handy with your needle as 
your mother," her father said, throwing the blankets 
over his shoulder to carry them to the barn. 

" Now spring to, child, and set the table," her 
mother added, ''and I '11 rest a few minutes, for I 
feel as if every bone in my body was broken." 

While Debby sewed, the bright sunlight on the 
green field of wheat and the brown, ridged field of 
corn-stubble visible through the one large window, 
had faded quickly away ; and as she paused a 
moment to pick some shreds off her dress and 
glance out at the weather, all she could see was the 
dim outline of the woods, the dark forms of the 
hills rising behind them, and the cold, black wind- 
clouds piled high above them all. 

Tea was ready and over at last, and then Mrs. 

Blanchard said, while she tried to quiet the scream- 
ing baby : 

" Go and get ready for the Fair, child, and I will 
wash the dishes. I have a dreadful sideache, and 
I expect this young one will cry for an hour or two. 
But ' every dog must' have his day,' .and yours will 
be short enough." 

With the cloud on her heart that always followed 
her mother's gloomy sayings, Debby went slowly 
up to her room to array herself in her last year's 
blue merino. But it was a pleasant figure to look 
upon that she tiptoed up to the glass to survey, and 
a round rosy face, with a little frown over the right 
eyebrow, that looked out at her with wistful eyes. 

Drawing on hood and shawl, she went down- 
stairs and stood before her father with the money 
in her hand. He was seated at the table, bending 
over a large account-book, with Debby's frown 
deepened at the corner of his bushy eyebrow, and 
his fingers in his ears to shut out the baby's cries 
that reached him from the bedroom. As soon as 
she caught sight of what he was doing, Debby's 
hopes fell, for reckoning up the yearly expenses 
always made him cross for a week. 

" Where are you off to now ? " he asked, glancing 
up at her. 

' ' To the Fair. The boys are there to come home 
with me. And here," her voice faltering, " is the 
change from the school-books." 

" Don't stay late," he replied, turning away and 
dropping the precious money into his vest-pocket. 

With a bursting heart, Debby stumbled out into 
the windy starlight and walked rapidly along the 
rough road, with her mittened fingers in her mouth 
to prevent her crying aloud. 

How bitterly she wished she had never heard of 
the Fair ! She was ashamed to go back into the 
house with no reason for returning, yet the thought 
of attending the Fair with no money to spend was 
torturing to her. 

" There 's Debby ! Merry Christmas ! Ride 
with us ! Jump in, Debby ! " called several voices, 
as a wagon full of boys and girls stopped beside 

"I don't want to; I'd rather walk," answered 
Debby, swallowing her sobs. 

" Walk, then ! " replied Harry Williams, snap- 
ping his whip. " I guess you got a switch in your 
stocking this morning ! " 

Laughing thoughtlessly, the party rattled past 
her, leaving her crying harder than before. But a 
walk full of dread comes to an end some time, and 
Debby soon found herself at the entrance to the 

Slipping in behind a group of men, she stood 
confused by the light and noise. 

It was a grand and exciting scene to the little 

l8 7 8.] 



country maiden, this long, low room, trimmed with 
evergreens and flags, and illuminated by all the 
lamps in the neighborhood. 

A table extended across each of three sides of 
the room. One, used for a supper-table, was filled 
with people eating and drinking noisily; on another 
was displayed the handiwork of the sewing society 
for the past year ; and the third, which appeared 
the most attractive, was laden with cake, confec- 
tionery, and ice-cream. 

Debby rubbed her swollen eyes, and was gazing 
about her in admiring astonishment, when her 
neighbor, Annie Williams, shouted " Merry Christ- 
mas " in her ear. 

" Oh ! Thank you/' replied the startled Debby. 

"Come and take off your things," suggested 
Annie. "You may put them with mine behind 
the apron and necktie end of the table. Mother 
tends that, you know." 

Annie tucked the wraps carefully away, and then 
drew Debby through the crowd over to the stove, 
screened off in the corner behind the supper-table, 
where the good aunties of the village were heating 
their faces and spotting their Sunday dresses while 
cooking oysters and making coffee for the benefit 
of the church. But these ladies looked so annoyed 
by seeing the girls stand around the stove that 
Debby hurried away. Possibly they thought that 
the church would not be benefited by Debby's 
warming her fingers and toes. 

Elbowing their way back, with arms clasped 
around each other's waist, they encountered and 
stepped on the toes of a big German boy, who con- 
vulsed them by pointing down at them with both 
forefingers, exclaiming : " See the two craz-z-z-y ! 
See the two craz-z-z-y ! " And Debby's laugh was 
as light-hearted as if she could buy everything in 
the room, and her mother had nineteen silk dresses. 

" Now come and get some ice-cream," urged 
Annie, as they were pushed toward it. " I have 
had three saucers, and think it is lovely. I ought 
to be a judge, don't you think so ? " 

"Not now," said Debby, hastily. "I want to 
look at the needle-books your mother made." 

"It's pokey over there! But I'll humor you, 
because it is Christmas," laughed Annie. 

So they dodged under elbows, and slipped be- 
tween young men and their sweethearts, until they 
reached the other end of the room, where Debby 
admired pen-holders with spiders and mice on them, 
cushions representing the old lady who lived in a 
shoe, and needle-books made like wheelbarrows, 
wondering if there had been anything at the Cen- 
tennial more beautiful than these. But when a 
group of girls claimed Annie's attention, she eagerly 
seized the opportunity to slip away and sit on the 
bench behind Mrs. Williams's table. 

"Tired so soon ?" inquired Mrs. Williams, kindly. 
" But why did n't your mother come ? " 

" She did n't have — I don't mean — I mean she 
did n't speak of coming," stammered Debby, with 
burning cheeks. 

" Never mind," replied Mrs. Williams. " you will 
have a good time, I know ; and you must be sure 
to ride home with us." 

Soothed by her sympathetic words, Debby almost 
forgot her troubles, and sat watching the moving 
picture with great amusement, until she espied her 
brothers helping Mr. Williams pass the saucers of 

" Oh, I hope they wont be tempted to take any," 
she thought, her heart full of a wordless prayer for 
them. But her anxiety was soon relieved by see- 
ing Sam forcing his way toward her with a plate of 

" He gave it to me for helping," he whispered; 
" but you take it. Jim ate his right up." 

" Eat it yourself, Sammy," she said, drawing 
back the hand she had stretched out for it. " I 
don't care so very much about it, because I am 
older, you know." 

" Don't you, now, ' truly, truly, black and bluely, 
lay me down and cut me in twoly ? ' " he asked, 
with the air of a magistrate about to "swear" a 

" I would very much rather you should eat it," 
evaded Debby. 

" Then I will," he answered, brightly, "for I do 
want it awfully." 

"Eat it, then; but don't be tempted to take 
any," she cautioned. 

"Catch me taking — I'm not a thief! "and he 
hastened away. 

Debby was thirteen years old, but she could have 
cried for that ice-cream. 

"Oh, here you are at last ! " cried Annie, run- 
ning up to her a few minutes afterward. " I 
could n't imagine where you had got to. Now, just 
read my letter," placing a tiny sheet of pink paper 
in her hand. " That box all trimmed up at the 
end of the candy-table is the post-office," she ex- 
plained, " and we give them five cents and ask for 
a letter. Just read mine." 

Debby read, written in a large, clear hand : 

"And shnuldst thou ask my judgment of that which hath most 
profit in the world, 
For answer take thou this; The prudent penning of a letter." 

"It's lovely!" was Debby's comment. "If I 
should have one, I wonder what it would be ! " 

* " I'll run and get you one," volunteered Annie. 

" No, no ! " cried Debby, in terror. " I have no 
money to pay for it." 

" Have you spent it all so soon ? " asked Annie, 




curiously. " But we must go now and get our ice- 
cream ; for, do you know, Mr. James has promised 
to treat all our class. So come along, for the more 
we eat the richer the church will grow." 

" No," refused Debby, shaking off Annie's hand, 
" I wont do any such thing," and she shrank back 
into her corner. 

" How queerly you act ! You wont do anything 
I ask you," pouted Annie, turning away. 

" I could n't take it," Debby excused to herself. 
" I want it so much that I 'd feel like a beggar in 
taking it from him. Annie can't understand, be- 
cause she has bought it for herself, and will only 
eat it now for fun. I wish there was something for 
me to do.'' 

Her thought was scarcely finished before it was 
answered by Mrs. White, in the handsome alpaca 
Debby's mother so admired. 

; ' What am I to do with this child ? " she asked, 
stopping before Mrs. Williams with a sleeping baby 
in her arms. " Phil wants me to go to supper with 
him, but what can I do ? " 

" I '11 hold her," said Debby, eagerly. " I have 
a nice quiet place here." 

" Much obliged, I 'm sure," answered Mrs. White, 
placing the baby carefully in her arms. 

With something to take care of, Debby grew so 
comfortable that when Mrs. White returned from 
supper she begged to keep the baby longer. 

" Every one is so busy here that I 'd like to have 
something to do, too," she said, arranging a paper 
so as to shade the baby's eyes from the light, 
remembering with a throb of gratitude the oranges 
Mrs. White sent her when she was sick last fall. 

" If you don't really care to run about, it would 
be a great favor to me," returned Mrs. White, " for 
there are so many people here that I shall not see 
again for a year, and I want to speak to them all. 
But a baby is not the most convenient article to 
carry in a crowd." 

The handsome alpaca disappeared, and Debby 
kept her guard for an hour, watching the young 
people who visited the post-office or joked over the 
neckties and aprons. 

" Here 's an industrious young lady who has had 
no supper," declared a bald-headed old gentleman, 
stopping before her with a large bell in his hand. 

" I Ye had my supper," quickly answered Debby. 

" I don't remember counting you at the table," 
he replied, wiping the perspiration from his fore- 
head as he passed on, loudly ringing the bell. 

" I did n't tell a story," sighed Debby, " for I Ye 
had my supper; but I'd like people to think I'd 
had it here. It looks so nice to sit at the table," 
she added, catching a glimpse of Annie's blue rib- 
bons as she sat at the table next her brother. 

"How thoughtless I have been!" cried Mrs. 
White, returning in a fluster. " I forgot all about 
you ; you must be tired to death." 

" Only a little tired," said Debby, " and I am so 
glad to do anything for you." 

" Well, you must come and see me," invited 
Mrs. White, with her mouth full of pins, as she 
rolled the baby into a large shawl, '-'and perhaps I 
can find something for you to read." 

But when Debby stood up she felt more stiff and 
tired than she had acknowledged, and, fearing that 
she had stayed too late, she hurried on her wraps, 
and with much persuasion induced her brothers to 
go home with her. 

" It would n't do us any good to stay and see the 
auction," she reasoned, closing the door upon the 
noisy scene with a heart lighter than when she had 
entered it. " Now let us see how fast we can trot 
home in the moonlight." 

Giving a hand to each of the boys, they walked 
swiftly toward the little red farm-house, where, 
although their parents had retired, a lamp and 
a bright fire awaited them. 

The kitchen seemed very quiet after the hubbub 
they had left, with the clock on the stroke of nine 
and the cat asleep in the wood-box. 

There were three pieces of pumpkin-pie on the 
table, left as a lunch for them, and these they ate, 
talking in whispers ; and then Debby unfastened 
the boys' neckties, and followed them upstairs, too 
tired and sleepy to be very glad or very sorry about 

But as she snuggled down under the blankets, 
with the " merry din" still ringing in her ears, she 
thought : 

" I have not made much Christmas for any one 
to-day, but, when I 'm grown-up, wont I make 
Merry Christmas for little girls ! " 

i8 7 8.. 




(An Old Soldier's Reminiscence.) 

By David Ker. 

've seen many a brave 
man in my time, 
sure enough," said 
old Ivan Starikoff, 
removing his short 
pipe to puff out a 
volume of smoke 
I from beneath his 
I long white mous- 
'. tache. "Many and 
many a one have I 
seen ; for, thank 
Heaven, the chil- 
dren of holy Russia 
are never wanting 
in iliat way ; but 
all of them put to- 
gether would n't 
make one such man 
as our old colonel, 
Count Pavel Petro- 
vitch* Severin. It 
was n't only that he faced danger like a man, — 
all the others did that, — but he never seemed 
to know that there urns an)- danger at all. It 
was as good as a re-enforcement of ten bat- 
talions to have him among us in the thick of a 
fight, and to see his grand, tall figure drawn up 
to its full height, and his firm face and keen gray 
eye turned straight upon the smoke of the enemy's 
line, 2s if defying them to hurt him. And when the 
very earth was shaking with the cannonade, and 
balls were' flying thick as hail, and the hot, stifling 
smoke closed us in like the shadow of death, with a 
flash and a roar breaking through it every now 
and then, and the whole air filled with the rush of 
the shot, like the wind sweeping through a forest 
in autumn, — then Petiovitch would light a cigarette 
and hum a snatch of a song, as coolly as if he were 
at a dinner-party in the English Club at Moscow. 
And it really seemed as if the bullets ran away 
from him, instead of his running from them ; for 
he never got hit. But if he saw any of us begin- 
ning to waver, he would call out cheerily : ' Never 
fear, lads — remember what the song says ! ' For 
in those days we had an old camp-song that we 
were fond of singing, and the chorus of it was this: 

" * Then fear not swords that brightly shine, 
Nor towers that grimly frown ; 
For God shall march before our line, 
And tread our foemen down.' 

"He said this so often, that at last he got the 
nickname among us of ' Ne-Boisya' (Don't fear), 
and he deserved it, if ever man did yet. Why, 
Father Nikolai Pavlovitch himself (the Emperor 
Nicholas) gave him the Cross of St. George f with 
his own hand (the St. George from the emperor's 
own hand — think of that !) at the siege of Varna, 
in the year '28. You see, our battery had been ter- 
ribly cut up by the Turkish fire, so at last there 
were only about half a dozen of us left on our feet. 
It was as hot work as I ever was in, — shot pelting, 
earth-works crumbling, gabions crashing, guns and 
gun-carriages tumbling over together, men falling 
on every side like leaves, till, all at once, a shot 
went slap through our flag-staff, and down came 
the colors ! 

" Quick as lightning, Pavel Petrovitch was up on 
the parapet, caught the flag as it fell, and held it, 
right in the face of all the Turkish guns, while I 
and another man spliced the pole with our belts. 
You may think how the unbelievers let fly at him 
when they saw him standing there on the top of 
the breastwork, just as if he 'd been set up for a 
mark ; and all at once I saw one fellow (an Alba- 
nian by his dress, and you know what deadly shots 
they are) creep along to the very angle of the wall, 
and take steady aim at him ! 

" I made a spring to drag the colonel down (I was 
his servant, you know, and whoever hurt him hurt 
me) ; but before I could reach him I saw the flash 
of the Albanian's piece, and Pavel Petrovitch's cap 
went spinning into the air, with a hole right through 
it just above the forehead. And what do you think 
the colonel did ? Why, he just snapped his fingers 
at the fellow, and called out to him, in some jibber- 
jabber tongue only fit to talk to a Turk in : 

" ' Can't you aim better than that, you fool ? If 
/ were your officer, I 'd give you thirty lashes for 
wasting the government ammunition ! ' 

■■ Well, as I said, he got the St. George, and of 
course everbody congratulated him, and there was 
a great shaking of hands, and giving of good 
wishes, and drinking his health in mavro tchai, — 
that 's a horrid mess of eggs, and scraped cheese, 
and sour milk, and Moldavian wine, which these 
Danube fellows have the impudence to call ' black 
tea,' as if it was anything like the good old tea that 
we Russians drink at home ! (I 've always thought, 
for my part, that tea ought to grow in Russia ; for 
it 's a shame that those Chinese idolaters should 
have such grand stuff all to themselves. ) 

* Paul the son of Peter. This is the usual form of address in Russia, even from a servant. 

t The highest Russian decoration. 




" Well, just in the height of the talk, Pavel 
P.etrovitch takes the cross off his neck, and holds 
it out in his hand — just so — and says : 

" ' Well, gentlemen, you say I 'm the coolest man 
in the regiment, but perhaps everybody would n't 
agree with you. Now, just to show that I want 
nothing but fair play, if I ever meet my match in 
that way, I '11 give him this cross of mine ! ' 

" Now, among the officers who stood around him 
was a young fellow who had lately joined — a quiet, 
modest lad, quite a boy to look at, with light curly 
hair, and a face as smooth as any lady's. But 
when he heard what the colonel said, he looked up 
suddenly, and there came a flash from his clear 
blue eyes like the sun striking a bayonet. And 
then I thought to myself: 

"'It wont be an easy thing to match Pavel 
Petrovitch ; but if it can be done, here 's the man 
to do it ! ' 

" I think that campaign was the hardest I ever 
served. Before I was enlisted, I had often heard it 
said that the Turks had no winter ; but I had 
always thought that this was only a ' yarn,' though, 
indeed, it would be only a just judgment upon the 
unbelievers to lose the finest part of the whole 
year. But when I went clown there I found it true, 
sure enough. Instead of a good, honest, cracking 
frost to freshen everything up, as our proverb says, 

" ' Na zimni kholod 
Vsiaki molod ' — 

{in winter's cold every one is young), it was all chill, 
sneaking rain, wetting us through and through, 
and making the hill-sides so slippery that we could 
hardly climb them, and turning all the low grounds 
into a regular lake of mud, through which it was a 
terrible job to drag our cannon. Many a time in 
after days, when I 've heard spruce young cadets at 
home, who had never smelt powder in their lives, 
talking big about ' glorious war ' and all that, I 've 
said to myself. ' Aha, my fine fellows ! if you had 
been where / have, marching for days and days 
over ankles in mud, with nothing to eat but stale 
black bread, so hard that you had to soak it before 
you could get it down ; and if you 'd had to drink 
water through which hundreds of horses had just 
been trampling ; and to scramble up and down 
steep hills under a roasting sun, with your feet so 
swollen and sore that every step was like a knife 
going into you ; and to lie all night in the rain, 
longing for the sun to rise that you might dry 
yourself a bit, — perhaps then you would n't talk 
quite so loud about " glorious war ! " ' 

" However, we drove the Turks across the Bal- 
kans at last, and got down to Yamboli, a little town 
at the foot of the mountains, which commands 
the high-road to Adrianople. And there the un- 
believers made a stand, and fought right well. I 

will say that for 'em ; for they knew that if 
Adrianople were lost, all was over. But God 
fought for us, and we beat them ; though, indeed, 
with half our men sick, and our clothes all in rags, 
and our arms rusted, and our powder mixed with 
sand by those rogues of army-contractors, it was a 
wonder that we could fight at all. 

" Toward afternoon, just as the enemy were be- 
ginning to give way, I saw Pavel Petrovitch (who 
was a general by this time) looking very hard at a 
mortar-battery about a hundred yards to our right ; 
and all at once he struck his knee fiercely with his 
hand, and shouted : 

'• ' What do the fellows mean by firing like that ? 
They might as well pelt the Turks with potatoes ! 
I'M soon settle them ! Here, Vanya (Ivan) ! ' 

"Away he went, I after him ; and he burst into 
the battery like a storm, and roared out : 

" ' Where's the blockhead who commands this 
battery ? ' 

" A young officer stepped forward and saluted; 
and who should this be but the light-haired lad 
with the blue eyes, whom I had noticed that night 
at Varna. 

" 'Well, you wont command it to-morrow, my 
fine fellow, for I '11 have you turned out this very 
day. Do you know that not a single shell that 
you 've thrown since I 've been watching you has 
exploded at all ? ' 

" ' With your excellency's leave,' said the young 
fellow, respectfully, but pretty firmly too, ' the 
fault is none of mine. These fuses are ill-made, 
and will not burn down to the powder.' 

" ' Fuses ! ' roared the general. ' Don't talk to 
me of fuses ; I 'm too old for that rubbish ! Is n't 
it enough for you to bungle your work, but you 
must tell me a lie into the bargain ? ' 

"At the word 'lie,' the young officer's face seemed 
to turn red-hot all in a moment, and I saw his 
hand clench as if he would drive his fingers through 
the flesh. He made one stride to the heap of 
bomb-shells, and, taking one up in his arms, struck 
a match on it. 

" ' Now,' said he, quietly, ' your excellency can 
judge for yourself. I 'm going to light this fuse ; if 
your excellency will please to stand by and watch 
it burn, you will see whether I have " lied" or not.' 

" The general started, as well he might. Not that 
he was afraid — you may be pretty sure of that ; but 
to hear this quiet, bashful lad, «ho looked as if he 
had nothing in him, coolly propose to hold a lighted 
shell in his arms to see if it would go off, and ask 
him to stand by and watch it, was enough to startle 
anybody. However, he was n't one to think twice 
about accepting a challenge ; so he folded his arms 
and stood there like a statue. The young officer 
lighted the fuse, and it began to burn. 




"As for me and the other men, you may fancy 
what we felt like. Of course, we could n't run while 
our officers were standing their ground ; but we 
knew that if the shell did go off, it would blow 
every man of us to bits, and it was n't pleasant to 
have to stand still and wait for it. I saw the men 
set their teeth hard as the flame caught the fuse ; 
and as for me, I wished with all my heart and soul 
that if there were any good fuses in the heap, this 
might turn out to be one of the bad ones ! 

"But no — it burned away merrily enough, and 
came down, and down, and down, nearer and 
nearer to the powder ! The young officer never 
moved a muscle, but stood looking steadily at the 
general, and the general at him. At last, the red 
spark got close to the metal of the shell ; and then 
I shut my eyes, and prayed God to receive my sold. 

■' Just at that moment, I heard the man next me 
give a quick gasp, as if he had just come up from 
a plunge under water ; and I opened my eyes again 
just in time to see the fuse out, and the young 
officer letting drop the shell at the general's feet, 
without a word. 

Note. — Two other versions of this story, differing somewhat in 

more probable, as well as 

" For a moment, the general stood stock still, 
looking as if he did n't quite know whether to 
knock the young fellow down, or to hug him in 
his arms like a son ; but, at last, he held out his 
hand to him, saying : 

" ' Well, it 's a true proverb, that every one meets 
his match some day ; and 1 've met mine to-day, 
there 's no denying it. There 's the St. George for 
you, my boy, and right well you deserve it ; for if 
I 'm " the coolest man in the regiment," you 're the 
coolest in all Russia ! ' 

"And so said all the rest, when the story got 
abroad ; and the commander-in-chief himself, the 
great Count Diebitsch, sent, for the lad, and said a 
few kind words to him that made his face flush up 
like a young girl's. But in after days he became 
one of the best officers we ever had ; and I 've seen 
him, with my own eyes, complimented by the 
emperor himself, in presence of the whole army. 
And from that day forth, the whole lot of us, 
officers and men alike, never spoke of him by any 
other name but Khladnokrovni (' the cool-blooded 
one ')." 

detail, are current in the Russian army ; but the one in the text is the 
the more generally received. 


By Theodore Winthrop. 

[Never before printed.] 

A BOUNDING gallop is good 

Over wide plains ; 
A wild free sail is good 

'Mid gales and rains ; 
A dashing dance is good 

Broad halls along, 
Clasping and whirling on 

Through the gay throng. 
But better than these, 
When the great lakes freeze, 
By the clear sharp light 
Of a starry night, 
O'er the ice spinning 
With a long free sweep, 
Cutting and ringing 
Forward we keep ! 
On 'round and around, 
With a sharp clear sound, 
To fly like a fish in the sea !- 
Ah, this is the sport for me ! 



There were once three little foxes who lived in a hole in a bank. It 
was a large, comfortable hole, and these three little foxes (two of them 
were brothers and one was a sister) could lie down and put their heads 
out of the hole, and see what was goingf on in the neighborhood. 

One afternoon one of the brother foxes slipped out by himself for a 
little walk, and when he came back he called the other two, and said : 
" Oh, come here ! I will show you something, and tell you all about it." 

So they all lay down ,close together, and looked out of the hole. 

" Now then," said the brother fox who had been out, " you see that 
fence down there ? " 

" Oh yes," said his brother and sister. 

" Well, on the other side of that fence is a splendid chicken-yard. I 
went down there and saw it myself. I peeped through the fence. And 
in that yard there is a row ot chicken-coops, all with chickens in." 

" Oh ! " said the others. They began to feel hungry already. 

" Yes, all with chickens in, and I heard a little girl say that the row 
of coops was called Pullet Row, Chicken Avenue, and that all the houses 
were taken. The first coop had an old hen and eleven little puffy chickens 
in it, and the second one held a whole lot of small chickens who were 
big enough to take care of themselves ; and the next coop had in it an 
old rooster who had hurt his foot, and who had to be shut up. I think 
it's funny that neither mother nor father ever found out this splendid 
chicken-yard, so near us too ! As soon as it gets to be a little dark we 
must eo down there and gfet some of those chickens." 

"All right," said the sister fox; "we'll go, and I'll take the first coop 
with the little chickens." 

" And I '11 take the coop with the young chickens who are big enough 
to take care of themselves," said one of the brother foxes. 

" I '11 take the big old rooster," said the other brother fox. " I like 
lots of chickens when I eat any." 

At the back of the hole the old Mother Fox was lying down. Her 
children thought she was asleep, but she was not, and she heard all that 
they had been talking about. 

She now came forward and said : " That is certainly a very nice place 
that you see down there, and you, my son, were very smart, no doubt, 
to discover it. But when you go down there, this evening, take a look 
at a small house near the chicken-yard. A dog lives there — a big black 

i8 7 8.1 



and white fellow — named Bruce. He is let into the chicken-yard every 
night at dark. If you think that he wont see you, when you go inside, 
or that he can't run fast enough to catch you, it might be a very good 
idea for you to go down there this evening and get some chickens." 


The three little foxes looked at each other, and concluded that they 
would not go. It was a long time after that before they were heard to 
boast of being smarter than their father and mother. 

Vol. V.— 16. 





HAPPY 1878 ! Happy New Year to all Jack's 
little friends ! And now let us begin our year's 
talk with something about 


DEACON Green took a ride early last month, 
my dears, and he tells me of a wonderful garden 
which he saw from a window as he went whirling 
by on a railroad. 

Can you guess what was growing in a garden in 
December ? 

No, it was not in a Southern State ; so your 
guess of oranges isn't right — though they tell me 
that oranges do grow in winter-time in Florida. 

It was a garden of Christmas-trees, set out in 
even rows, and looking as spruce and gay and 
happy as if they knew that they were almost old 
enough to hold a candle in each of their thousand 
hands, and a bright gift or token of good-will on 
each of their thousand arms. I fancy that the gar- 
dener who has his mind filled with the care of a 
garden of Christmas-trees must be a very cheery, 
kind-hearted fellow indeed. Don't you ? 


In Mecklenburg, Northern Germany, as I 'm 
told, fuel is scarce and dear ; and, as the peasants 
are very poor, they take an odd way to save wood. 
It is this : 

Each village has one or two large ovens in which 
the baking for a number of people can be done at 
one time. These ovens look from a little distance 
as if they were small hillocks, and they are built in 
the open fields. Why they are placed away from 
the village I was not told ; but I would like to 
know. They have very much the look of under- 
ground dairy-cellars, and are built of great stones 

covered with turf. One or two men can go into an 
oven quite comfortably. 

In each oven a great fire is made, to heat the 
stones, and when these are hot enough the fire and 
ashes are swept out, and the bread is put in to 
bake. Then a stone door is put over the mouth 
until it is time to take out the loaves. There is no 
chimney or opening, and the heat stays in well — 
even for some time after the bread has been taken 
out ; so that it is no strange thing for a belated 
traveler to use the shelter or warmth of one of these 
empty ovens on some cold and stormy night when 
far from his home. 

So much for fire-places out-of-doors. Now for a 
word about 


I 'VE just heard of the queer way the Persians 
have of keeping themselves warm in their houses 
during cold weather. They place in the middle of 
the room a pan of burning charcoal under a sort 
of table or frame which holds up a large wadded 
quilt that reaches the floor on all sides, like a tent. 
This must look almost like keeping the fire warm. 
Then the family sit around the droll stove, with 
their legs and arms under the quilt ; and when they 
wish to go to sleep, they put themselves half under 
the quilt, and so keep nice and warm until the 
morning. That 's easy enough for Persians to do, 
because, as I 'm told, they never undress at night, 
but just roll themselves in coverings and lie down 

Perhaps you would not find such arrangements 
in your homes quite as comfortable as soft beds 
and cozy blankets in well-warmed rooms. How- 
ever, the Persian winter is not as cold as ours, I 


Here 's an odd thing ! My wise old wide-awake 
friend the owl tells me that a Yale College professor 
has found out a way to make a layer of metal so 
thin that it will readily show the color of a light- 
beam sent through it. That professor will be 
showing us how to see through a mill-stone next, 
may be. 


Dear Jack : I have a little friend, called Jack, too, who is gener- 
ally the most sweet-tempered boy I know. But one day he came to 
play in my rooms, as usual, for 1 always keep his toys there, in repair 
and order. He soon grew tired of them, and came to me for a story. 
I was busy with reading, and refused, telling him to wait until I had 
leisure. Then he grew impatient, and put my book down with a 
coaxing "Please, Fred." I could not humor him then, and gently 
told him to stop. Then — I am sorry to sav it — he became very angry, 
and gave me a blow in my face Now, Jack, don't pass your sen- 
tence yet — remember, it was che first and only act of that kind. But 
guess what I did. 

I stooped over him and kissed him, saying : " Is this my little 
boy?" He looked at me and went into a corner — ashamed and 
weeping. Was not that a sweet victory ? I wish some little sisters or 
brothers would try it. You may believe me this is truth. Some 
future day I will tell you how I made him some toys. — Yours, 



DID you ever hear of such an article of food as 
bird's-nest soup ? Well, this soup does not take its 
name from its looks, as bird's-nest pudding gets its 
title, but it is actually made from real birds'-nests. 

In the island of Java, I 'm told, there is a species 

i8 7 8.| 

J AC K - I N - T II E - P U L P I T. 

2 35 

of sea-swallow which makes a nest much like that 
of our chimney-swallow, and fastens it to the rocky 
walls of caves. These nests are made almost en- 
tirely of a glue-like substance, mixed with a little 
grass or hair and a few sticks, and they arc carefully 
gathered and sent to China, where they are sold 
as food. 

The nests are soaked in water until the glue 
becomes soft, when the sticks and straws are picked 
out and thrown away. The jelly which remains is 
then dried and preserved, to be used in making 
the bird's-nest soup. This is considered a great 

China at the present time, many things little 
thought of now will be turned to use as articles 
of food. But at present there is no need <sf rob- 
bing the birds ; so let them keep cheerful while 
they may, poor dears ! 


Now that we 're talking about birds'-nests, I 
may as well tell you some news that has come to 
me all the way from East Cosham, in Hampshire, 

On a small piece of frame-work under a third- 


delicacy, and the nests are sold in the Chinese 
markets for twenty-five dollars a pound. Of course, 
at this price, none but rich folks can indulge in 
them, and they are therefore a very fashionable 
dish. Although they are usually made into soup, 
they are sometimes cooked in other ways. 

It's my opinion that the nest of the chimney- 
swallow might be used as food in the same way ; 
for although it has more sticks and hay in it than 
the edible nest, there is a good deal of glue, too. 
and each nest might yield quite a large pot of soup. 
If the lime shall ever come when our own country 
will have as many people in it as there are in 

class "smoking" carriage on the London and 
South-Western Railway, a water-wagtail built her 
nest and reared a young and thriving family of 
four. The train traveled regularly about forty miles 
a clay, and the station-master at East Cosham says 
that, during every absence of it, the male bird 
kept close to the spot, awaiting with great anxiety 
the return of his wayfaring family. 

Now, in my opinion, that water-wagtail mother 
made a queer choice for her home-place. But if 
the little ones get no other advantage from it. they 
are sure to be well trained. What do you think 
about it. my chicks ? 





The following is Dr. J. G. Holland's answer to his " Double 
Riddle," published in our last number: 

La, man ! I see your little game: 
'T is "la" itself in song or aria 

That piercing dear Maria's name 
Transforms it to Malaria. 

And "la" itself, as all men know. 
Raises the sol to si and do. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I have made up a nice little story, and I 
want you to know it. It is called " Laziness." 

Once upon a time there was a little boy and Ins name was James. 
He was very lazy. One day he was going out to play when his 
mother called him back. "James," said she, " I went up to your 
room to make your bed, for the maid was too busy, and your room is 
very disorderly. Unless you promise to keep it in order, and have it 
in order by next week, I will send you from home. I am very sorry 
to say this; but it must be said. Now you may go; that is all I 
wanted you for." Next week came very soon, and the room was 
still in disorder. The mother went up and looked in ; she threw her- 
self on her knees, and prayed that Heaven would not let her send 
her boy away. James went away, and his mother never saw him 

Now, children, leam a lesson from this, and don't be driven from 
home by laziness. 

I am eleven years old, and I want you to give my love to Jack-in- 
the-Putpit and the School-mistress. Jennie Moore. 

The Blind-Clerk's Puzzle. 

This is what the " Blind-clerk " made of the puzzling address that 
M. B. T. gave in a letter to Jack-in-the-Pulpit, published last month : 

" Servant Girl, No. 40 Queen's parade, London." 

And that turned out to be the right address, too. Another friend says 
that this same blind-clerk once had referred to him a letter addressed 
like this : 

"To my uncle torn, london." 

That was too much. The letter never reached " my uncle torn." 

Dear St Nicholas: I have taken St. Nicholas for several 
years, and like it better every year. I often read over the old num- 
bers, and find many things that seem almost new to me. One of 
these was ''John Spooner's Human Menagerie," in the number for 
April, 1S75, and I have been trying to get up a " menagerie" like 
John's. I can make most of the wonderful living curiosities, but I 
do not know how to make a curtain that will " go up with a flourish." 
I have made one to draw sideways, but I want one to go up. Please 
inform me how to construct it. — Yours truly, Fred R. Martin. 

Here is a tolerably easy way to make a stage-curtain that will 
"go up with a flourish," and come down either quickly or slowly, 
as may be wished. It is easily "kept in order, and readily repaired 
when damaged. 

Above the stage, at the front, set up a stout cross-beam. Let the 
curtain be of some opaque stuff that will fold well. Fasten its upper 
edge firmly to the front of the cross-beam. Weight the lower edge of 
the curtain with a long roller some inches wider than the curtain. 
Sew to the curtain, on its wrong side, perpendicular rows of rings 
set at suitable distances apart, and in level lines across. The more 
rows, the more evenly will the curtain fold. Tie a strong thin cord 
about the roller in a line with each perpendicular row of rings, and 
pass each cord through its proper rings. On the botlom of the cross- 
beam above the several rows of rings, fasten large smooth rings to 
be used instead of pullics. Pass the cords up through the large 
rings, and gather them at one end of the beam. Then fasten the 
ends of the cords to a rope, taking care while doing this that the 
curtain is down, and hanging properly, and that all the cords are 
drawn equally tense. There should be a stout pin or hook at the side 
of the curtain, to which the rope is to be fastened when the curtain 
is drawn up. Take notice that the cords are of different lengths and 
must be free from knots. The curtain should not touch the stage, 
and may be kept in place by fixing the ends of the roller in iron rings 
or between pegs. 

Two Ways of Carrying the Mail 

The frontispiece to this number of St. Nicholas shows how the 
mails were carried in winter over the Rocky Mountains and the 
Sierra Nevada before the Union Pacific Railroad was finished (1869), 
and how they arc carried now. In 1867, to the perils of the snow 
and wind and of mountain travel, were added dangers from despera- 
does, white as well as red, so that mail deliveries were few and far 
between, and very irregular, while too often both the carriers and 
theii packs were lost Slow as the old way was, however, the snow 
sometimes makes the new way even slower. In spite of miles and 
miles of snow-sheds and snow-fences, and ever so many steam snow- 
plows, the railroad is blocked now and then until a way can be dug 
through huge heaps of drift. Thus, sometimes, whole days are lost 
on the steam road, when a man might be speeding and coasting on 
his queer foot-gear, over the snow-crust like the wind, to reach the 
destination perhaps a week ahead of the snorting snowed-up mon- 
ster. However, year by year, as sheds and fences and other preven- 
tions are multiplied, railroad delays caused by snow become fewer 
and fewer. 

Georgetown, D. C. 
Dear St. Nicholas : I was so much pleased with the little figure 
of a nun in the November number, that I made eight like it. I have 
been taking the St. Nicholas ever since it came out, and think it 
gets nicer every time it is published. I am not quite seven years old, 
but I composed all of this letter. John Wm. Mitchell. 

My Very Dear St. Nicholas: We really don't know what we 
should do without you. We took the "Young Folks" for a great 
many years, and have taken you ever since you were first established. 

We went, a short time ago, to see a man who swallowed swords for 
a profession. Now, can any of our St. Nicholas friends tell us 
whether he really swallowed them or not, and explain how it is done ? 
— Your loving friends and devoted readers, Fannie Chandler, 

Mary White. 

Painesville, Ohio. 
Dear St. Nicholas: My children learn the names of English 
kings and queens, the books of the Old Testament in their order, and 
other matters of importance to remember, through having found and 
committed to memory certain rhymes containing them. I have seen 
several embodying the books of the New Testament, but they all 
have been too difficult or long for children to learn. I inclose an 
easy one, written for my own children, which may prove useful to 
your large family of young folks. W. 

Books of the New Testament. 

In the New Testament we find 

Matthew and Mark leading, 
With St. Luke and St. John 

The books next succeeding. 
Acts and Romans have place 

Before Corinthians and Galatians ; 
In them we can trace 

Good news for all nations. 
Ephesians and Philippians 

In order are next ; 
Col'ssians, Thessalonians, 

With hard names and good text. 
Timothy, Titus, and Philemon 

Fill up some pages, 
And with Hebrews continue 

The lessons of ages. 
James. Peter, and John 

Finish then the good story 
With J ude, and Revelations 

To add to its glory. 

Mount Desert. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I have seen a good many receipts for candy 
in the " Letter-Box," but not one for chocolate creams. Here is one 
I have tried a great many times, and it has always been successful: 

Two cups of sugar to half a cup of boiling water Put on the 
stove, and let it boil ten minutes. Grate a quarter of a square of 
Baker's chocolate. Place this on the top of a steaming-kettle ; leave 


i8 7 8.] 

T 1 1 E LETT E R-liO X. 


it there until soft. Meanwhile, take off the cream and beat it until 
perfectly white. Roll into little ruund balls, and dip them in the 
chocolate. Put the balls into a dish, and set them away to cool. 

Hoping you will print tins receipt, I remain your devoted admirer, 

Caroline G. Blodget. 

P. S. — The sugar must be powdered. 

Mollie. — We do not know. One always has to make sure, too, 
that no speck of envy lurks in the wish to have justice done. 

A friend sends us the following Kindergarten song: 



i'^-ft— - 



|SE gEJ gE££^ 


One, two, three ! 

Now please listen to me : 
A minute is sixty seconds long ; 
Sixty minutes to an hour belong. 

One, two, three ! 

Learning is easy, you see. 

Four, five, six ! 

'T is easy as picking up sticks. 
Twenty-four hours make one long day; 
Seven days in a week we say. 

One, two, three ! 

Learning is easy, you see. 

Seven, eight, nine ! 

Never cry or whine. 
The years are only twelve months long; 
There is no time for doing wrong. 

One, two, three ! 

Learning is easy, you see. 

Tick, tack, tock ! 

Only look at the clock. 
He works away the whole day long, 
And every hour he sings a song. 

Ding, dong, ding ! 

So we '11 work aiid sing. P. 

Elizabeth, N. J. 
Mv Dear St_ Nicholas: Would you please tell me something 
about the Drawing Classes of the School of Design at the Cooper 
Institute; and what forms have to begone through before a pupil 
can enter; and how old a pupil has to be? Good-by, dear St. 
Nicholas.— Your faithful reader, Sarah D. O. 

The "Woman's Art School" of the Cooper Union, about which 
Sarah D. O. makes inquiry, is for pupils between the ages of sixteen 
and thirty-five. 

Applications for admission should be made, personally or in writ- 
ing, to the Principal, Mrs. Sarah N. Carter, giving a responsible 
written reference as to character, fitness, etc. 

The free school holds session from 9 a. m. to 1 p. m. There is a 
"paying" class that meets three times a week in the afternoon, un- 
der the charge of the first assistant in drawing of the " Woman's Art 
School " and of the clerk of the school, and the general superintend- 
ence of the principal. But the "paying " class is only for those who 
wish to study art merely as an accomplishment. 

Dear St. Nicholas: I thought you would like to hear about a 
little girl who is very fond of you. She always took St. Nicholas 
until last autumn, then the times were so hard we were unable to get 
it for her; so she has read and re-read the old ones. Mamma has 
been sick a great deal for two years, and Agnes, who is ten years 

old and the oldest of the family, has learned to do a great many 
things. She can make bread, biscuit, pits and cake, — but her chief 
accomplishment is toast-making. Last fall, when berries were ripe, 
she picked and dried some currants, raspberries and blackberries, and 
put them carefully away. Ever since, when any one is sick, she 
puts some of her berries in a cup and cooks them nicely; then she 
makes such a nice piece of toast, so delicate, never scorched or raw. 
She has no fruit-closet of delicacies to go to, but the common things 
she has are so nicely prepared that they become luxurious, and often 
make mamma think of Bayard Taylor's little rhymes about mush and 
milk, a couplet of which reads : 

"And common things that seem most nigh, 
Both purse and heart may satisfy." 

Her little brother, eighteen months old, claims much of her care, 
and in return loves her as much as he does mamma. He calls her 
Tee, and misses her sadly if she is out of sight an hour. 

When Agnes was three years old, she said one day: 

" Papa, how I love you! " 

" What makes you love him? See how homely he is," teasingly 
answered mamma. 

The little one took a good look at papa, and throwing her arms 
around his neck again, she said: 

" Well, he 's pretty in bis heart." 

Mamma thinks the little girl who can be so thoughtful forever- 
tired mamma, so kind to the sick, and so tender of little baby 
brother, must be pretty in her heart. Agnes's Mother. 

Here is an enigma made by a little girl eight years of age : 
Cross-word Enigma. 

My first is in spin, but not in weave ; 

My second in part, but not in leave; 

My third is in rain, but not in storm ; 

My fourth in chilly, but not in warm ■ 

My fifth in hen, but not in coop; 

My whole is a country of Europe. 
Answer : Spain. 

Easton, Md. 
Dear St. Nicholas : Will you please tell me from which of 
Shakspeare's plays the following quotation is taken ? 

" Sweet are the uses of adversity. 

Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, 
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head." 

— Yours truly, Mary H. Wilson. 

The quotation is from " As You Like It,' 
the whole passage reads : 

Act IL. Scene 

1 Sweet are the uses of adversity, 
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, 
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head ; 
And this our life, exempt from public haunt, 
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running 
Sermons in stones, and good En everything." 


The beauty is marred, and the aptness of the illustration is lost sight 
of, by omitting the second half of this admirable sentence ; therefore 
we quote it entire. 

" Fairfax," San Rafael, Cal. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I have seen letters from San Francisco, 
Oakland, and other places in California, but I do not think any one 
has written to you from San Rafael, a beautiful little town near San 

" Fairfax" is about three miles from the town. The ride here is 
very pleasant, especially in winter and spring time, when the hills are 
green and the wild flowers are in bloom. 

The house resembles the old Fairfax house in Virginia, called 
Greenway Court, except that this is perhaps more rambling and the 
other lacks our wide-spreading bay-trees. It faces the garden and 
orchard, and beyond these is the hill, a mine of wonder and beauty. 

We all enjoy climbing that hill and looking for ferns. In some 
parts we hardly dare step, for fear of crushing something beautiful. 
We look down upon a bank of green moss, and find snowy, shell-like 
fungi, so delicate that we bold our breath lest they should float away. 
Farther on are orange-colored, ones, and some shaped like callas, 
translucent, and in color a pale pink carnelian. Wandering on. we 
enter a grove of pine-trees, in the midst of which a spring is bubbling 
up. and the ground is covered with a carpel of ferns, mosses, and 
wild flowers. By the time we arc ready to go home, our baskets are 
well filled; and then, after we get home, we have the delight of 
arranging the flowers and ferns, examining the fungi with the micro- 
scope, and preparing imposing baskets of specimens to send to two 
delightful members of the Academy of Science in San Francisco, who 
arc making fungi a specialty in their researches. 

One day last summer my brother came running into the house, 




saying, in a very loud whisper, "There's a deer in the creek! 
There 's a deer in the creek!" We all rushed out in time to see 
Uncle George, up to his waist in water, struggling with an immense 
buck. The dogs were there, too, barking as loudly as they could. 
It was very exciting. My sympathies were entirely with the deer, 
who made a noble fight before he was conquered. Deer are plentiful 
around here. Often we are awakened by the baying of the deer- 
hounds, and we can see the hunting parties on their horses galloping 
over the hill, and the dogs running to and fro. 

The boys C3tch a good many large fish in our creek, and my uncle 
once caught a ten-pound salmon-trout that was very pretty; it had 
two delicate pink bands running along its sides. 

The hills are crimson, a little before Christmas, with a holly pecu- 
liar to California ; and we have many merry excursions in a wagon 
that we children call our "chariot," in which we go to gather holly 
for our Christmas festivities. 

I have written too much, and yet I would like to tell more, our 
days are so full of pleasant change. — Your affectionate reader, 

May D. Eigelow (fifteen years old). 

Answers to Puzzles in the November Number were received, 
previous to November 18, from Annie Longfellow, " Bess," " Isola," 
" Bessie and her Cousin," "Helen of Troy," W. M. B., Nessie E. 
Stevens, "Winnie," Florence L. Turrill, James J. Ormsbee, Annie 
Forbush and Emma Elliott, Grace G. Chandler, Carrie Speiden and 
Mary F. Speiden, F. A. G. Cameron, Fred M. Pease, Geo. J. Fiske, 
Geo. Herbert White, " Sidonie," Louise Gilnian, Cielia Duel Mosher, 
Mamie L. Holbrook, Ellie Hewitt, Fannie W., " Croghan, Jr.," 
Anna E. Mathewsun, Eddie Bryan, and Allie Bertram. 


Aunt Jo's Scrap-Bag, Vol. IV. {My Girls, etc.), published by 
Messrs. Roberts Brothers, Boston, is the fourth book in this deservedly 
popular series of short stories by Miss Louisa M. Alcott. The tales 
are full of freshness, humor, and wholesome thought, with inimitable 
touches of playful fancy and tenderness such as have established Miss 
Alcott's loving rule over the hearts of ber readers. Boys as well as 
girls will find plenty to enjoy in these twelve delightful scraps from 
Aunt Jo's bag, and, — but readers of St. Nicholas need no recom- 

mendation to them of anything that Miss Alcott has written. There 
are some pretty illustrations to the book, and the price is one dollar. 

From the same publishers we have received also : Tom, a Home- 
Story, by George L. Chaney, illustrated, $1.25 ; A Gkeat Emer- 
gency, and Other Tales, by Juliana Horatia Ewing, illustrated, 
$1.25; Jolly Good Times at School — Also Some Times not 
quite so Jolly, by P. Thome, illustrated, $1.25. 

A new book by the author of " Helen's Babies" is now to be ob- 
tained. It is called Budge and Toddie, their Haps and Mishaps, 
and is an illustrated edition of "Other People's Children." The de- 
signs are by Lucy G. Morse. 

Boys will be glad to hear of a good book, Every-day Experiences 
at Eton, hy a present Eton boy, published by George R. Lockwood, 
of New York. It is a hearty and amusing story, giving, with very 
slight exaggeration, a faithful account of life in the English public- 
school at Eton. 

Spenser for Children, published by Chatto & Windus, of Lon- 
don ; Scribner, Armstrong & Co., New York. A beautiful book, 
illustrated with several fine colored plates, and relating in simple 
prose the chief incidents of Spenser's great poem. 

From Messrs. Baker, Pratt & Co., New York, we have Lilliput 
Land; or, The Children's Peep-Show. This is a collection of 
serials, short stories, poems, music, and pictures, adapted to interest 
and instruct young folks. It is edited by the author of "Lilliput 
Levee." Price, $1.25. 

Messrs. Porter & Coates, Philadelphia, send us Happy Days, a 
very pleasant book, full of pictures, tales and verses, for boys and 
girls. Several of the articles arc by well-known writers, and the 
contents, as a whole, are bright, wholesome, and entertaining. 

From the American Tract Society, New York, we have received 
Dolly's New Shoes, and Some of the Places they Went to, 
price 30 cents, postage 2 cents ; Daughters of Armenia, by Mrs. 
S. A. Wheeler, Missionary m Turkey, price go cents, postage 6 cents ; 
Almost a Man, by S. Annie Frost, with illustrations by Arthur Bur- 
dett Frost, price $r, postage 8 cents; Grace Ashleigh's Life- 
Work, illustrated, price $1, postage S cents ; and Dear Old Stories 
told Once More, forty Bible stories, in large type, and with illus- 
trations by " Faith Latimer," 



The initials read downward and the finals upward will give the 
names of two countries in Europe. 

1. A beam of light. 2. To join. 3. To pillage. 4. An article of 
food. 5. What merchants write. 6. An insect. a. b. 


Across: i. Calls. 2. A number. 3. A consonant. 4. A river. 
5. Wounds. Diagonals: Sharpens and transmits. Central: In- 



1. Behead a kind of nut, and leave a kind of grain. 2. Behead a 
small stream, and leave a bird. 3. Behead another bird, and leave a 
gardener's implf -nent. 4. Behead a musical instrument, and leave 
another musical instrument. 5. Behead a carpenter's tool, and leave 
a narrow passage. 6. Behead part of a wagun, and leave a part of 
the body. 7. Behead another part of the body, and leave a tree. 
8. Behead an edible fish, and leave the defeat of an army. 9. Behead 
a dried fruit, and leave an ancient alphabetic letter. isola. 


Diagonals, from left to right, a part of the year. Seven words. 
Fill the blanks in the sentence with appropriate words; and written 
under each other in the order given, they will give the diagonal. 

As is more abundant than m this season when Love 

her altar fires anew, may this joy_ go through the year, bearing 

you constant ; so that, looking back at its close, you can say ; 

«< 1878 to have been one prolonged ." J- p. 


Central Syncopations. 

1. Syncopate mad, and leave what soldiers often make. 2. Synco- 
pate part of a house, and leave to move. 3. Syncopate speed, and 
leave anger. 4. Syncopate to soak, and leave a gait. 5. Syncopate 
a river, and leave a rank. 6. Syncopate a particle, and leave a laugh. 
7. Syncopate openings, and leave farming implements. 8. Syncopate 
baked clay, and leave fastenings. 

The letters that have been syncopated, read downward, will make 
two words which you must find in the following 

Cross-word Enigma. 

1. In brook, but not in sea; 

2. In slave, but not in free ; 

3. In lose, but not in find ; 

4. In heed, but not in mind ; 

5. In barn, but not in shed; 

6. In black, but not in red ; 

7. In hill, but not in mound ; 

8. In held, but not in bound. 
What 's the answer ? — can you say ? 

'T is something boys much like to play. 



1. a good post at . 2. Did you notice the carved 

in that old cathedral door in ? 3. with pleasure 

from Geneva, for . 4. I took great to witness these national 

games, when in . 5. I found gold in a mine in . 6. I 

could stand in the entrance to the cave in ■ . 7. I have 

interes 1 . in than in any other foreign city. b. 

i8 7 3.1 

tup: riddle-box. 

2 39 


In a word of five letters find : ist. An hour-glass puzzle, the central 
letters of which, read downward, signify to perform again ; horizon- 
tally, a symbol often used in wriling, a beverage, a vowel, a perform- 
ance, to provide. 2d. A word-square containing a unit, a vehicle, 
an epoch. 3d. Words to each of which one letter may he prefixed 
S3 as to form, another word: a prepositiun, an animal: a verb, a 
weed ; a study, a vehicle ; a part of the body, a sign of sorrow. 
4th, Words to fill appropriately the blanks in each stanza below, by 
prefixing a letter to the first word, when found to form the second, 
and by prefixing a letter to the second to form the third : 

I would not heed so small an , 

When dealing with one of his , 

Or of my temper leave a . 

We asked him in ; he sat and 

Of the ripe fruit at such a , 

He lowered well the heaped up . h. h. d. 


1. An instrument for measuring time. 2, A title among the ancient 
Peruvians. 3. Sour. 4. To load. pluto. 


When we went to the 123456 789, the others had contrived to 
123456789 us in picking nuts. CYRU. deane. 



In these quotations find five girls' names, without transposing 
any letters. 

" Of such as wandering near her secret bower. 
Molest her ancient solitary reign." — Gray. 

" Where olive-leaves were twinkling in every wind that blew. 
There sat beneath the pleasant shade a damsel of Peru." 


," Slowly she raised her form of grace; 

Her eyes no ray conccptive flung." — Hogg. 


" Stainless worth, 
sternest age of virtue saw." — Bryant. 









\ C- 

,J " 


■ &- 

Each of the horizontal words is formed of five letters, excepting 
No. 6, which has but three. Of the perpendiculars, Nos. 16, 17 and 
18 have ten letters each ; No, 12 has three letters ; and each of the 
other perpendiculars has five letters. The slanting words have each 
three letters. Each corner letter serves for every word that radiates 
from or to its corner. 

Meanings of the Different Words. — Horizontals ; 1, Sub- 
lime; 2, an engraving; 3, to trench ; 4, occurrence ; 5, a certain form 
of glass ; 6, a kind of fish ; 7, large ; 8, a yard ; 9, concise. Per- 
pendiadars ; 10, An article of dress ; n, solemn ; 12, hitherto; 13,10 
make sure; 14, a Turkish institution; 15, to establish ; 16, magical; 
17, advancement; 18, tractable. Diagonals.- 19, Sarcastic; 20, to 
jump; 2i, did meet; 22, a wooden fastening; 23, a part of the body ; 
■24. a hammock ; 25, a girl's name. h. h. d. 

Make the frame of four words of nine letters each, so that there 
shall be the same letter of the alphabet at each of the four corners 
where the words intersect. That letter being indicated (o, in this 
puzzle), gives the clue. 

Upper horizontal line, a pigeon ; lower horizontal line, a kind of 
grain. Left perpendicular line, without a name; right perpendicular 
line, without fragrance. e. 


Mv first of Roman origin you see, 
Whose purport illustrates the century; 
Means light for blind men; restless as a sprite : 
The sailor's trust; the prelate's dear delight. 

My second heads a small but mighty band, 
Whose power pervades and elevates the land : 
Indefinite enough, yet, once defined, 
It is a thing no language leaves behind. 

My third consoles, and cheers in anguish deep, 

And oft, like great Macbeth, hath "murdered sleep." 

Dear to the maiden's heart when dry and dead, 

Its beauty and its bloom forever fled. 

Yet even then what lips its charm rehearse! 

What poets chant it in their genial verse ! 

My whole how soft, how silent and how fleet 

Female, yet masculine, its aspect sweet. 

Tinted as fair as clouds that deck the sky, 

Or stainless as the snows that round us lie; 

Bright as the saffron tints of dawning light, 

Or darker than the stormv depths of night. 

A prince's bride ; the treasure of a lad : 

And yet biographer it never had. 

For he who writes its life must ever use 

Volumes to celebrate each separate muse. 

Fierce, fond, and treacherous, full of songs and wails, 

The hero of a thousand fights and talcs; 

The love of ladies and the scorn of men : 

The shame of England's arms. Oh guess me then! 



These are a source of great amusement, whether written or acted. 
To illustrate the latter, you will, for instance, throw your muff under 
the table, and ask. "What word does that represent?" Perhaps 
some one will suggest "Muffin." " No— ' fur-below.' " Tie your 
handkerchief tightly around the neck of some statuette — "Arti- 
choke " — etc. In writing or speaking a sentence to illustrate a word, 
the most ridiculous will sometimes provoke the most mirth. We will 
give an illustration rjf one pretty far-fetched, but allowable: " Mister, 
please come here and make this shell stand up on edge " — " Circum- 
stantial (Sir-come-stan'-shell)." " I encountered the doctor to-day" — 
"Metaphysician"). With this introduction, I propose a few words 
for your consideration. 

1. Put an extremity into a jar. 2. Young ladies from Missouri. 
3. A cow's tail in fly-time. 4. That young sow cost twenty-one shil- 
lings sterling. 5, A sham head-dress 6. Victims to corns. 7. Oxi- 
dized iron on a weapon. 8. " Where "s the prisoner, Pat ? " " Sure, 
your honor, he 's taking his breakfast." 9. "Come and cut our hair." 
10. Deviate, fish. 11. A goat 12. Four. aunt sue. 





PR? ■ t^S^ 


664 //rr My \^v — i/-v /; -\^ -S g 6526571 

The puzzle is an Anagram Enigma, rather difficult, and meant 
for experienced puzzle-workers. The answer is the first line of a well- 
known couplet relating to Christmas. 

Each of the numerals underneath the pictures represents a letter 
belonging to that word o{ the answer indicated by the numeral, — 
(thus, 3 indicates a letter of the third word ; 7, a letter of the seventh 
word, etc.), — and each collection of numerals represents a word which 
will describe the picture above it. 

To solve the puzzle, find a word to describe each picture containing 
as many letters as there are numerals beneath the picture. After all 
the seven words have been thus found, select from them and group 
together all the letters that in the numbering beneath the pictures are 
designated bv the same numeral (for, as already stated, all the letters 
bearing the same numeral belong to that word of the answer which is 

indicated by the numeral), and each group of these letters must be 
transposed to form the word of the answer which corresponds with 
the numeral of the group. 

Thus, the word "hay" has three letters and will describe the first 
picture. After words have been found to describe the other pictures, 
the selection must begin, and "h," the first letter of "hay," should 
be placed in a group with all the other letters bearing the numeral 7 
in the numbering beneath the pictures; "a" should be grouped with 
all the other letters designated by 2, and " y " with all those designated 
by 3: and so on. 

When all the letters have been properly separated and grouped, 
transpose all those letters belonging to group No. 1 into a word to- 
form the first word of the answer ; those belonging to group No. 2 into 
the second word of the answer, etc. 


Chess Puzzle. — Begin at the word " Bind." The stanza reads - 
" Bind me, ye woodbines, in your twines; 
Curl me about, ye gadding vines ; 
And oh, so close your circles lace, 
That I may never leave this place ; 
But lest your fetters prove too weak, 
Ere I your silken bondage break, 
Do you, O brambles, chain me too, 
And, courteous briars, nail me through." — Marvhll 

(Quoted by Elia in essay entitled " Blakesmoor in H shire.") 

Easy Numerical Enigma. — Lowell. L, lo, low, owe, we, well, ell 
A Plea for Santa Claus. — Merry Christmas. Take the third 
letter from the beginning of each line, and read downward. 

Magic Domino Square. — The diagram shows one method of 
arranging the dominoes. But the puzzle can be solved by two or 
three other arrangements. 

• • 

• a 

* a 

• a 

a a 

• a 




a a 
a a 

a a 
a a 
a a 

# a 




» * 

• <3 


a a 

a a 

a a 

• a 

Broken Words. — 1. Inquires — in quires. 2. Western — we stern. 
3. Ashantee — a shanty. 

Pictorial Quadruple Acrostic. — Stalagmites, Stalactites, Nat- 
ural Cave, Underground. 1. SNUfferS. 2. TANgenT. 3. ATDA. 
3. LaUrEL. 4. AuRoRA. =;. GGAC. 6. MeaL RaT. 7. IOdide 
Cuprl. 8. TrUAnT. 9 ENVelopE. 10. SpaDES 

Christmas Enigma. — "He has more business than an English 
oven at Christmas." 

Authors' Names.— i. Mulock (mew, loch). 2. Edgeworth (edge 
worth). 3. Thackeray (T hack ray). 4. Carlvle (Carl isle). 5. Charles 

Reade (Charles read). 6. Ruskin ^rusk inn). 7. Gaskell (gas K ell). 
8. Hale. 0. Macaulay (Mac awl ay). 10. Victor Hugo (victor hug O), 
11. Prescott (press cot). 12. Whitney (whit neigh). 13. Braddon 
(brad don). 14. Alcott (Al cot). 15. Disraeli (D Israel I). 16. Ros- 
setti (Rose Ettie). 

A Rimless Wheel. — 1. Parapet. 2. Manakin. 3. Fanatic. 4. 
Rubadub. \a, par; ib, pet; 2a, man; ib, kin; 3/z, fan; 3^, tic; 
4^z. rub ; 4^, dub. 

Diagonal Puzzle. — Santa Claus. St. Nicholas, pAtronizes,. 
coNfidence, conTribute, compArablc, reconciles, immacuLate, legit- 
imAte, miraculoUs, schoolboyS. 

Proverb Puzzle. — "Christmas comes but once a year." Car, 
sabots, chimney, mnuse, trace. 

Sextuple Acrostic. — Mopes, Abaft, Lnrva, Enter. 

Easy Diamond Puzzle. — R, Dog, Robin, Gig, N. 

Numerical Enigmas. — 1. Winsome — win some. 2. Sailor — sail 
or. 3. Wind-flowers — wind flowers. 4. Whip-poor-will — whip poor 
Will. 5. Parents — Pa rents. 6. To-morrow — Tom or row. 7. Well- 
fare — Well ! farewell. 

Answer to Tree Puzzle in Jack-in-the-Pulpit. — The above 
diagram shows one way of arranging nineteen trees in nine straight 
rows and yet have five trees in each row. The lines show the rows. 
For names of solvers of November puzzles, see "Letter-Box," page 238. 



Vol. V. 

FEBRUARY, 1878. 

No. 4. 

[Copyright, 1878, by Scribner & Co.] 

By Emily S. Oakey. 

Little Roy led his sheep down to pasture, 
And his cows, by the side of the brook ; 

But his cows never drank any water, 
And his sheep never needed a crook. 

For the pasture was gay as a garden, 
And it glowed with a flowery red ; 

But the meadows had never a grass-blade. 
And the brooklet — it slept in its bed ; 

And it lay without sparkle or murmur, 
Nor reflected the blue of the skies. 

But the music was made by the shepherd, 
And the sparkle was all in his eyes. 

Oh, he sang like a bird in the summer ! 

And, if sometimes you fancied a bleat, 
That, too, was the voice of the shepherd, 

And not of the lambs at his feet. 

And the glossy brown cows were so gentle 
That they moved at the touch of his hand 

O'er the wonderful rosy-red meadow. 

And they stood at his word of command. 

So he led all his sheep to the pasture, 
And his cows, by the side of the brook ; 

Though it rained, yet the rain never patter'd 
O'er the beautiful way that they took. 

And it was n't in Fairy-land either, 
But a house in a commonplace town, 

Where Roy as he looked from the window 
Saw the silvery drops trickle down. 

For his pasture was only a table. 

With its cover so flowery fair, 
And his brooklet was just a green ribbon 

That his sister had lost from her hair. 

And his cows they were glossy horse-chestnuts, 
That had grown on his grandfather's tree ; 

And his sheep they were snowy-white pebbles 
He had brought from the shore by the sea. 

And at length, when the shepherd was weary, 
And had taken his milk and his bread, 

And his mother had kissed him and tucked him, 
And had bid him " «,ood-night" in his bed, 

Then there enter'd his big brother Walter, 
While the shepherd was soundly asleep, 

And he cut up the cows into baskets, 

And to jack-stones turned all of the sheep. 

VOL. V. — 17. 





(A Story of the Middle Ages.) 

By the Author of "Chronicles of the Schonberg-Cotta Family. 

Chapter III. 

IE next day, Gottlieb began 
his training among the other 

It was not easy. 
The choir-master showed 
his appreciation of his raw 
treasure by straining every 
nerve to make it as perfect 
as possible ; and therefore he found more fault with 
Gottlieb than with any one else. 

The other boys might, he could not but observe, 
sing carelessly enough, so that the general har- 
mony was pretty good ; but every note of his 
seemed as if it were a solo which the master's ear 
never missed, and not the slightest mistake was 
allowed to pass. 

The other choristers understood very well what 
this meant, and some of them were not a little 
jealous of the new favorite, as they called him. 
But to little Gottlieb it seemed hard and strange. 
He was always straining to do his very best, and 
yet he never seemed to satisfy. The better he did, 
the better the master wanted him to do, until he 
grew almost hopeless. 

He would not, for the world, complain to his 
mother ; but on the third evening she observed 
that he looked very sad and weary, and seemed 
scarcely to have spirits to play with Lenichen. 

She knew it is of little use to ask little children 
what ails them, because so often their trouble is 
that they do not know. Some little delicate string 
within is jarred, and they know nothing of it, and 
think the whole world is out of tune. So she 
quietly put Lenichen to bed, and after the boy had 
said his prayers as usual at her knee, she laid her 
hand on his head, and caressingly stroked his fair 
curls, and then she lifted up his face to hers and 
kissed the little troubled brow and quivering lips. 

" Dear little golden mouth ! " she said, fondly, 
" that earns bread, and sleep, for the little sister 
and for me ! I heard the sweet notes to-day, and 
I thanked God. And I felt as if the dear father 
was hearing them too, even through the songs in 

The child's heart was opened, the quivering lips 
broke into a sob, and the face was hidden on her 

" It will not be for long, mother ! " he said. 
" The master has found fault with me more than 

ever to-day. He made me sing passage after pas- 
sage over and over, until some of the boys were 
quite angry, and said, afterward, they wished I and 
my voice were with the old hermit who houses us. 
Yet he never seemed pleased. He did not even 
say it was any better." 

" But he never gave you up, darling ! " she said. 

" No ; he only told me to come early, alone, 
to-morrow, and he would give me a lesson by my- 
self, and perhaps I should learn better." 

A twinkle of joy danced in her eyes, dimmed 
with so many tears. 

" Silly child ! " she said, fondly, " as silly as thy 
poor mother herself ! The master only takes 
trouble, and chastens and rebukes, because he 
thinks it is worth while, because thou art trying 
and learning, and art doing a little better day by 
day. He knows what thy best can be, and will 
never be content with anything but thy very best." 

"Is it that, mother? Is it indeed that ?" said 
the boy, looking up with a sudden dawning of 

And a sweet dawn of promise met him in his 
mother's eyes as she answered : 

" It is even that, my own, for thee and for me ! " 

Chapter IV. 

With a glad heart, Gottlieb dressed the next 
morning before Lenichen was awake, and was off 
to the choir-master for his lesson alone. 

The new hope had inspired him, and he sang 
that morning to the content even of the master, as 
he knew, not by his praise, but by his summoning 
Ursula from the kitchen to listen, unable to resist 
his desire for the sympathy of a larger audience. 

Ursula was not exactly musical, nor was she 
demonstrative, but she showed her satisfaction by 
appropriating her share of the success. 

" / knew what was wanting ! " she said, signifi- 
cantly. " The birds and the blessed angels may 
sing on crumbs or on the waters of Paradise ; but 
goose and pudding are a great help to the alleluias 
here below." 

" The archduchess will be enraptured, and the 
Cistercians will be furious ! " said the choir-master, 
equally pleased at both prospects. 

But this Gottlieb did not hear, for he had availed 
himself of the first free moment to run home and 
tell his mother how things had improved. 

After that, Gottlieb had no more trouble about 



the master. The old man's severity became com- 
prehensible and dear to him, and a loving liberty 
and confidence came into his bearing toward him, 
which went to the heart of the childless old man, 
so that dearer than the praise of the archduchess, 
or even the discomfiture of the Cistercians, became 
to him the success and welfare of the child. 

But then, unknown to himself, the poor boy 
entered on a new chapter of temptations. 

The other boys, observing the choir-master's 
love for him, grew jealous, and called him some- 
times "the master's little angel," and sometimes 
"the little beggar of the hermitage" or "Dwarf 
Hans' darling." 

He was too brave and manly a little fellow to tell 
his mother all these little annoyances. He would 
not for the world have spoiled her joy in her little 
" Chrysostom," her golden-mouthed laddie. But 
once they followed him to her door, and she heard 
them herself. The rude words smote her to the 
heart, but she only said : 

" Thou art not ashamed of the hermit's house, 
nor of being old Hans' darling ? " 

" I hope, never ! " said the child, with a little 
hesitation. " God sent him to us, and I love him. 
But it would be nice if dear Hans sometimes washed 
his face ! " 

Magdalis smiled, and hit on a plan for bringing 
this about. With some difficulty she persuaded 
the old man to take his dinner every Sunday and 
holiday with them, and she always set an ewer of 
water — and a towel, relic of her old burgher life — 
by him, before the meal. 

" We were a kind of Pharisees in our home," 
she said, " and except we washed our hands, never 
ate bread." 

Hans growled a little, but he took the hint, for 
her sake and the boy's, and gradually found the 
practice so pleasant on its own account, that the 
washing of his hands and face became a daily 

On his patron saint's day (St. John, February 8). 
Mother Magdalis went a step further, and presented 
him with a clean suit of clothes, very humble but 
neat and sound, of her own making out of old 
hoards. Not for holidays only, she said, but that 
he might change his clothes every day, after work, 
as her Berthold used. 

" Dainty, burgher ways," Hans called them, but 
he submitted, and Gottlieb was greatly comforted, 
and thought his old friend a long way advanced in 
his transformation into ah angel. 

So, between the sweetness of the boy's temper 
and of his dear mother's love which folded him 
close, the bitter was turned into sweet within 

But Ursula, who heard the mocking of the boys 

with indignation, was not so wise in her consola- 

" Wicked, envious little devils ! " said she. 
" Never thou heed them, my lamb ! They would 
be glad enough, any of them, to be the master's 
angel, or Dwarf Hans' darling, for that matter, if 
they could. It is nothing but mean envy and 
spite, my little prince, my little wonder ; never 
thou heed them ! " 

And then the enemy crept unperceived into the 
child's heart. 

Was he indeed a little prince and a wonder, on 
his platform of gifts and .goodness ? And were all 
those naughty boys far below him, in another 
sphere, hating him as the little devils in the 
mystery-plays seemed to hate and torment the 
saints ? 

Had the "raven " been sent to him, after all, as 
to the prophet of old, not only because he was 
hungry and pitied by God, but because he was 
good and a favorite of God ? 

It seemed clear he was something quite out of 
the common. He seemed the favorite of every one, 
except those few envious, wicked boys. 

The great ladies of the city entreated for him to 
come and sing at their feasts ; and all their guests 
stopped in the midst of their eager talk to listen to 
him, and they gave him sweetmeats and praised 
him to the skies, and they offered him wine from 
their silver flagons, and when he refused it, as his 
mother bade him, they praised him more than 
ever, and once the host himself, the burgomaster, 
emptied the silver flagon of the wine he had re- 
fused, and told him to take it home to his mother 
and tell her she had a child whose dutifulness was 
worth more than all the silver in the city. 

But when he told his mother this, instead of 
looking delighted, as he expected, she looked 
grave, and almost severe, and said : 

" You only did your duty, my boy. It would 
have been a sin and a shame to do otherwise. 
And, of course, you would not for the world." 

" Certainly I would not, mother," he said. 

But he felt a little chilled. Did his mother think 
it was always so easy for boys to do their duty? 
and that every one did it ? 

Other people seemed to think, it a very uncom- 
mon and noble thing to do one's duty. And what, 
indeed, could the blessed saints do more ? 

So the slow poison of praise crept into the boy's 
heart. And while he thought his life was being 
filled with light, unknown to him the shadows were 
deepening, — the one shadow which eclipses the 
sun, the terrible shadow of self. 

For he could not but be conscious how, even in 
the cathedral, a kind of hush and silence fell around 
when he began to sing. 




And instead of the blessed presence of God fill- 
ing the holy place, and his singing in it, as of old, 
like a happy little bird in the sunshine, his own 
sweet voice seemed to fill the place, rising and fall- 
ing like a tide up and down the aisles, leaping to 
the vaulted roof like a fountain of joy, and drop- 
ping into the hearts of the multitude like dew from 

And as he went out, in his little white robe, with 
the choir, he felt the eyes of the people on him, 
and he heard a murmur of praise, and now and 
then words such as "That is little Gottlieb, the 
son of the widow Magdalis. She may well be 
proud of him. He has the voice and the face of 
an angel." 

And then, in contrast, outside in the street, from 
the other boys: "See how puffed up the little 
prince is ! He cannot look at any one lower than 
the bishop or the burgomaster ! " 

So, between the chorus of praise and the other 
chorus of mockery, it was no wonder that poor 
Gottlieb felt like a being far removed from the 
common herd. And, necessarily, any one of the 
flock of Christ who feels that, cannot be happy, 
because if we are far away from the common flock, 
we cannot be near the Good Shepherd, who always 
keeps close to the feeblest, and seeks those that go 

Chapter V. 

It was not long before the watchful eye of the 
mother observed a little change creeping over the 
boy — a little more impatience with Lenichen, a little 
more variableness of temper, sometimes dancing 
exultingly home as if he were scarcely treading the 
common earth, sometimes returning with a depres- 
sion which made the simple work and pleasures of 
the home seem dull and wearisome. 

So it went on until the joyful Easter-tide was 
drawing near. On Palm Sunday there was to be 
a procession of the children. 

As the mother was smoothing out the golden 
locks which fell like sunbeams on the white vest- 
ments, she said : " It is a bright day for thee and 
me, my son. I shall feel as if we were all in the 
dear old Jerusalem itself, and my darling had 
gathered his palms on Olivet itself, and the very 
eyes of the blessed Lord himself were on thee, and 
His ears listening to thee crying out thy hosannas, 
and His dear voice speaking of thee and through 
thee, ' Suffer the little children to come unto me.' " 

But Gottlieb looked grave and rather troubled. 

" So few seem thinking just of His listening," he 
said, doubtfully. " There are the choir-master and 
the dean and chapter, and the other choristers, 
and the Cistercians, and the mothers of the other 
choristers, who wish them to sing best." 

She took his hand. " So there were in that old 
Jerusalem," she said. " The Pharisees, who wanted 
to stop the children's singing, and even the dear 
Disciples, who often thought they might be trouble- 
some- to the Master. But the little ones sang for 
Him, and He knew, and was pleased. And that 
is all we have to think of now." 

He kissed her, and went away with a lightened 

Many of the neighbors came in that afternoon 
to congratulate Magdalis on her boy — his face, his 
voice, his gentle ways. 

"And then he sings with such feeling," said 
one. " One sees it is in his heart." 

But in the evening Gottlieb came home very sad 
and desponding. For some time he said nothing, 
and then, with a brave effort to restrain his tears, 
he murmured : 

" Oh, mother ! I am afraid it will soon be over. 
I heard one of the priests say he thought they had 
a new chorister at the Cistercians whose voice is as 
good as mine. So that the archduchess may not 
like our choir best, after all." 

The mother said nothing for a moment, and then 
she said : 

" Whose praise and love will the boy at the 
Cistercian convent sing, Gottlieb, if he has such a 
lovely voice ? " 

"God's! — the dear Heavenly Father and the 
Savior ! " he said, reverently. 

"And you, my own? Will another little voice 
on earth prevent His hearing you ? Do the thou- 
sands of thousands always singing to Him above 
prevent His hearing you ? And what would the 
world do if the only voice worth listening to were 
thine ? It cannot be heard beyond one church, or 
one street. And the good Lord has ten thousand 
churches, and cities full of people who want to 

" But thou, mother ! Thou and Lenichen, and 
the bread ! " 

"It was the raven that brought the bread," she 
said, smiling; "and thou art not even a raven, — 
only a little child to pick up the bread the raven 

He sat silent a few minutes, and then the terrible 
cloud of self and pride dropped off from his heart 
like a death-shroud, and he threw himself into her 

"Oh, mother, I see it all!" he said. "I am 
free again. I have only to sing to the blessed Lord 
of all, quite sure He listens, to Him alone, and to 
all else as just a little one of the all He loves." 

And after the evening meal, and a game with 
Lenichen, the boy crept out to the cathedral to 
say his prayers in one of the little chapels, and to 
thank God. 



He knelt in the Lady chapel before the image of 
the infant Christ on the mother's knees. 

And as he knelt there, it came into his heart 
that all the next week was Passion week, " the still 
week," and would be silent ; and the tears filled his 
eyes to remember how little he had enjoyed sing- 
ing that day. 

" How glad the little children of Jerusalem must 
have been," he thought, "that they sang to Jesus 
when they could. I suppose they never could 

quite loud, and from a dark corner in the shadow 
of a pillar suddenly arose a very old man in a 
black monk's robe, with snow-white hair, and 
drew close to him, and laid his hand on his shoul- 
der and said : 

" Fear not, my son. I have a message for thee." 

At first, Gottlieb was much frightened, and then, 

when he heard the kind, tremulous old voice, and 

saw the lovely, tender smile on the wrinkled, pallid 

old face, he thought God must really have sent him 


again ; for the next Friday He was dead. Oh, 

suppose He never let me sing to Him again ! " 

And tears and repressed sobs came fast at the 
thought, and he murmured aloud, thinking no one 
was near : 

" Dear Savior, only let me sing once more here 
in church to you, and I will think of no one but 
you ; not of the boys who laugh at me, nor the 
people who praise me, nor the Cistercians, nor the 
archduchess, nor even the dear choir-master, but 
only of you, of you, and perhaps of mother and Len- 
ichen. I could not help that, and you would not 
mind it. You and they love me so much more than 
any one, and I love you really so much more than all 
besides. Only believe it, and try me once more." 
As he finished, in his earnestness, the child spoke 

an angel at last, though certainly not because he 
was good. 

" Look around on these lofty arches, and clus- 
tered columns, and the long aisles, and the shrines 
of saints, and the carved wreaths of flowers and 
fruits, and the glorious altar ! Are these wonder- 
ful to thee ? Couldst thou have thought of thern, 
or built them ? " 

'• I could as easily have made the stars, or the 
forests ! " said the child. 

•' Then look at me," the old man said, with a 
gentle smile on his venerable face. " a poor worn- 
out old man, whom no one knows. This beautiful 
house was in my heart before a stone of it was 
reared. God put it in my heart. I planned it all. 
I remember this place a heap of poor cottages as 




small as thine, and now it is a glorious house of 
God. And I was what they called the master- 
builder. Yet no man knows me, or says, ' Look 
at him ! ' They look at the cathedral, God's house ; 
and that makes me glad in my inmost soul. I 
prayed that I might be nothing, and all the glory 
be His ; and He has granted my prayer. And I 
am as little and as free in this house which I built 
as in His own forests, or under His own stars ; for 
it is His only, as they are His. And I am nothing 
but His own little child, as thou art. And He 
has my hand and thine in His, and will not let 
us go." 

The child looked up, nearly certain now that 
it must be an angel. To have lived longer than 
the cathedral seemed like living when the morn- 
ing stars were made, and all the angels shouted 
for joy. 

" Then God will let me sing here next Easter !" 
he said, looking confidingly in the old man's face. 

" Thou shalt sing, and I shall see, and I shall 
hear thee, but thou wilt not hear or see me ! " said 
the old man, taking both the dimpled hands in one 
of his. "And the blessed Lord will listen, as to 
the little children in Jerusalem of old. And we 
shall be His dear, happy children for evermore." 

Gottlieb went home and told his mother. And 
they both agreed, that if not an angel, the old man 
was as good as an angel, and was certainly a mes- 
senger of God. 

To have been the master-builder of the cathedral 
of which it was Magdalis's glory and pride that her 
husband had carved a few of the stones ! 

The master-builder of the cathedral, yet finding 
his joy and glory in being a little child of God ! 

Chapter VI. 

The "silent week" that followed was a solemn 
time to the mother and the boy. 

Every day, whatever time could be spared from 
the practice with the choir, and from helping in the 
little house and with his mother's wood-carving, or 
from playing with Lenichen in the fields, Gottlieb 
spent in the silent cathedral, draped as it was in 
funereal black for the sacred life given up to God 
for man. 

" How glad," he thought again and again, " the 
little children of Jerusalem must have been that 
they sang when they could to the blessed Jesus ! 
They little knew how soon the kind hands that 
blessed them would be stretched on the cross, and 
the kind voice that would not let their singing be 
stopped would be moaning ' 1 thirst.'" 

But he felt that he, Gottlieb, ought to have 
known ; and if ever he was allowed to sing his 
hosannas in the choir again, it would feel like the 
face of the blessed Lord himself smiling on him, 

and His voice saying, " Suffer this little one to 
come unto me. I have forgiven him." 

He hoped also to see the master-builder again ; 
but nevermore did the slight, aged form appear in 
the sunshine of the stained windows, or in the 
shadows of the arches he had planned. 

And so the still Passion week wore on. 

Until once more the joy-bells pealed out on the 
blessed Easter morning. 

The city was full of festivals. The rich were in 
their richest holiday raiment, and few of the poor 
were so poor as not to have some sign of festivity 
in their humble dress and on their frugal tables. 

Mother Magdalis was surprised by finding at 
her bedside a new dress such as befitted a good 
burgher's daughter, sent secretly the night before 
from Ursula by Hans and Gottlieb, with a J3air of 
enchanting new crimson shoes for little Lenichen, 
which all but over-balanced the little maiden with 
the new sense of possessing something which must 
be a wonder and a delight to all beholders. 

The archduke and the beautiful Italian arch- 
duchess had arrived the night before, and were to 
go in stately procession to the cathedral. And 
Gottlieb was to sing in the choir, and afterward, 
on the Monday, to sing an Easter greeting for the 
archduchess at the banquet in the great town-hall. 

The mother's heart trembled with some anxiety 
for the child. 

But the boy's was only trembling with the great 
longing to be allowed to sing once more his hosan- 
nas to the blessed Savior, among the children. 

It was given him. 

At first the eager voice trembled for joy, in the 
verse he had to sing alone, and the choir-master's 
brows were knitted with anxiety. But it cleared 
and steadied in a moment, and soared with a full- 
ness and freedom none had ever heard in it before, 
filling the arches of the cathedral and the hearts 
of all. 

And the beautiful archduchess bent over to see 
the child, and her soft, dark eyes were fixed on his 
face, as he sang, until they filled with tears ; and, 
afterward, she asked who the mother of that little 
angel was. 

But the child's eyes were fixed on nothing earthly, 
and his heart was listening for another voice — the 
voice all who listen for shall surely hear. 

And it said in the heart of the child, that day : 
" Suffer the little one to come unto me. Go in 
peace. Thy sins are forgiven." 

A happy, sacred evening they spent that Easter 
in the hermit's cell, the mother and the two chil- 
dren, the boy singing his best for the little nest, as 
before for the King of kings. 

Still, a little anxiety lingered in the mother's 
heart about the pomp of the next day. 

l8 7 8.] 



But she need not have feared. 

When the archduchess had asked for the mother 
of the little chorister with the heavenly voice, the 
choir-master had told her what touched her much 
about the widowed Magdalis and her two children ; 
and old Ursula and the master between them con- 
trived that Mother Magdalis should be at the ban- 
quet, hidden behind the tapestry. 

And when Gottlieb came close to the great lady, 
robed in white, with blue feathery wings, to repre- 
sent a little angel, and sang her the Easter greet- 
ing, she bent down and folded him in her arms, 
and kissed him. 

And then once more she asked for his mother, 
and, to Gottlieb's surprise and her own, the mother 
was led forward, and knelt before the archduchess. 

Then the beautiful lady beamed on the mother 
and the child, and, taking a chain and jewel from 
her neck, she clasped it round the boy's neck, and 
said, in musical German with a foreign accent : 

" Remember, this is not so much a gift as a 
token and sign that I will not forget thee and thy 
mother, and that I look to see thee and hear thee 
again, and to be thy friend." 

And as she smiled on him, the whole banqueting- 
hall — indeed, the whole world — seemed illuminated 
to the child. 

And he said to his mother as they went home : 

" Mother, surely God has sent us an angel at 
last. But, even for the angels, we will never forget 
His dear ravens. Wont old Hans be glad ? " 

And the mother was glad ; for she knew that 
God who giveth grace to the lowly had indeed 
blessed the lad, because all his gifts and honors 
were transformed, as always in the lowly heart, not 
into pride, but into love. 

But when the boy ran eagerly to find old Hans, 
to show him the jewel and tell him of the princely 
promises, Hans was nowhere to be found ; not in 

the hermit's house, where he was to have met them 
and shared their little festive meal, nor at his own 
stall, nor in the hut in which he slept. 

Gottlieb's heart began to sink. 

Never had his dear old friend failed to share in 
any joy of theirs before. 

At length, as he was lingering about the old 
man's little hut, wondering, a sad, silent company 
came bearing slowly and tenderly a heavy burden, 
which at last they laid on Hans' poor straw pallet. 

It was poor Hans himself, bruised and crushed 
and wounded in his struggles to press through the 
crowd to see his darling, his poor crooked limbs 
broken and unable to move any more. 

But the face was untouched, and when they had 
laid him on the couch, and the languid eyes opened 
and rested on the beloved face of the child bending 
over him bathed in tears, a light came over the 
poor rugged features, and shone in the dark, 
hollow eyes, such as nothing on earth can give — a 
wonderful light of great, unutterable love, as they 
gazed into the eyes of the child, and then, looking 
upward, seemed to open on a vision none else 
could see. 

" Jesus ! Savior ! I can do no more. Take care 
of him, thou thyself, Jesus, Lord ! " 

He said no more — no prayer for himself, only for 
the child. 

Then the eyes grew dim, the head sank back, 
and with one sigh he breathed his soul away to 

And such an awe came over the boy that he 
ceased to weep. 

He could only follow the happy soul up to God, 
and say voicelessly in his heart : 

" Dear Lord Jesus ! I understand at last ! The 
raven was the angel. And Thou hast let me see 
him for one moment as he is, as he is now with 
Thee, as he will be evermore ! " 





By William M. Tileston. 

was leaning over the tea-room 
table on one of the lovely 
spring mornings that we 
sometimes have in China. 
In front of me the large 
window, like that in an art- 
ist's studio, admitted the 
north light upon the long 
array of little porcelain tea- 
cups and saucers, and "mus- 
ters," or square, flat boxes 
of tea-samples. The last 
g new "chop" had been care- 
g fully tasted and the leaf in- 
^ spected, and I was won- 
dering whether the price 
asked by the tea-man would 
show a profit over the latest quotations from Lon- 
don and New York, when my speculations were 
disturbed by the entrance of my friend Charley, 
followed by Akong, well known as the most influ- 
ential tea-broker in the Oopack province. Charley 
and Akong were fast friends, and I saw by the 
twinkle in the eyes of each that a premeditated 
plot of some kind was about being exploded upon 
my unsuspecting self. 

But before going further, let me tell you who we 
all are, where we are, and what we are doing. 

Of course I am aware that it is exceedingly im- 
polite to put oneself first, but in the present 
instance you must excuse it ; for besides being the 
oldest, I occupy the position of guide, philosopher 
and friend to Charley, and my story would scarcely 
be intelligible or complete if I did not begin with 
myself. Well, to begin : I am one of those unfort- 
unate individuals known in China as "cha-szes," 
or tea-tasters ; doomed for my sins, or the hope of 
one day getting rich, to pass the time in smelling, 
tasting and buying teas for the great mercantile 
house or "hong" of Young Hyson & Co. The 
place at which you find me is Hankow, on the 
great Yang Tsze Kiang, or river, some six hundred 
miles from its mouth. If you have a map of China, 
and will find on it the Yang Tsze, by tracing with 
your finger — if your map is at all correct — you will 
discover the cities of Chin Kiang, Nanking, Ngan- 
king, Kiu Kiang, and finally, at the junction of the 
river Han with the Yang Tsze, Wuchang. Han- 
kow will probably not be on your map, but on the 
north bank of the Yang Tsze, just at the point of 
junction with the Han, is this important trading 

port, thrown open to foreigners in 1861, after the 
signing of the treaty of Tein-Tsin. 

And now for Charley, whom I have kept talking 
pigeon-English to Akong all this time. Charley 
was the son of an old friend, chaplain to the British 
consulate at one of the coast ports ; his mother 
dying, Charley was to have been sent home to rela- 
tives in England, but I had prevailed upon his 
father to let the boy, now between twelve and four- 
teen years old, make me a visit before his final 

And now for the conspiracy : 

" Chin-chin (how do you do), Akong ?" said I. 

"What is it, Charley? Out with it, my boy; 
some mischief, I know." Akong gave a chuckle 
and a muttered " hi-yah," and Charley proceeded 
to explain. 

"Well Cha," — the Chinamen called me Cha- 
tsze and the boy had abbreviated it to Cha, — 
" Akong says that he has a boat going up to the 
tea country to-morrow or next day, and wants me 
to go with him ; may I?" 

Charley knew that I could refuse him nothing, 
but the trip of several hundred miles into a district 
rarely, if ever, visited by foreigners, involved more 


of a risk than I cared to assume. Charley seeing 
that I looked unusually solemn, turned to Akong 
for support. 

" What for you no go too, Cha-tsze ? Just now 



my thinkee no got new chop come inside two 
week; get back plenty time." 

Akong's pigeon-English perhaps requires expla- 
nation : You must know, then, that the Chinese 
with whom all foreigners transact business, instead 
of learning correct English have a lingo, or patois, 
of their own, ascribed, but I think erroneously, to 
the carelessness of their first English visitors, who 
addressed them in this manner, thinking to make 
themselves more easily understood. The fact is, 
that pigeon-English, besides having many Portu- 
guese words mixed up with it, — the Portu- 
guese, you know, were established in China 
as early as the seventeenth century, — is in 
many instances a literal translation of Chi- 
nese into perverted English. In the present 
instance, Akong suggested that as there 
would be no more tea down for a fortnight, 
it would be well for me, too, to go. The 
proposition was quite agreeable to me, and 
Charley scampered off to tell Ahim, the 
cook, and Aho, my boy, to make the neces- 
sary preparations. 

The next morning, at an early hour, 
Akong's great mandarin, or house-boat, 
was moored at the jetty, and the boys were 
packing away the provisions and the char- 
coal for cooking, and long strings of copper 
"cash" to be used in the purchase of eggs 
and chickens, and the mats of rice that would form 
the principal article of " chow-chow " for the crew. 
Everybody in China has a boy, and Charley had 
his ; a regular young imp of a fellow of about his 
own age. Aling was his name ; Charley used to 
call him Ting-a-ling, and would jabber horrible 
Chinese to him by the hour. Aling jumped 
down the steps, two at a time, with Charley's trav- 
eling bag; but Aho, more sedate and dignified, 
marched after him ; Charley and I joined Akong 
in the front of the boat, and with a chorus of " chin- 
chins " from the coolies and house-servants left 
behind, and the explosion of a pack of fire-crackers 
to propitiate the river dragon, the boat was shoved 
from the jetty, the sail hoisted, and we were soon 
slowly stemming the broad current of the Yang 
Tsze. On our right was Hankow, with its million 
or more inhabitants, the hum of the great city fol- 
lowing us for miles ; and the mouth of the Han, its 
surface so covered with junks that their masts re- 
sembled a forest, and only a narrow lane of water 
was left for the passage of boats. Just beyond the 
Han was Han Yang, once a fine city, but now in 
ruins, one of the results of the Tae-ping rebellion. 
Across the Yang Tsze, here a mile wide, was 
Wuchang, the residence of the viceroy of the 
Hupeh province. This place was supposed to be 
closed to foreigners, but Charley and I had made 

many a secret visit, and had some rare sport among 
the curiosity shops, with occasionally an adventure 
of a less pleasing description, about which I should 
like to tell you if I had time. 

Rapidly we passed the suburbs of these cities, 
and drawing over to the south bank, as the wind 
was light, the crew were ordered ashore, and 
stretching themselves along a tow-rope extending 
from the mast-head, the boat was soon mov- 
ing quite rapidly. And that reminds me that I 
have not yet described our boat. These boats, 

used by the gentry in transporting themselves 
about the country, are almost like Noah's ark on a 
small scale — a boat with a house running almost 
the entire length of the deck, with little latticed 
windows on the outside, and the interior divided 
into rooms for eating and sleeping. The crew all 
lived aft on the great overhanging stern, where the 
cooking was done, and where the handle of the 
great "yuloe," or sculling oar, protruded. In 
front of the cabin was a little piece of deck-room 
where Charley and I had our camp-stools, and 
which gave us an excellent place from which to 
observe everything going on ahead. 

The boat coolies were straining on the tow-rope 
a hundred yards ahead. Frequently we passed 
some fisherman sitting in his little mat hut, with 
his feet on the windlass that raised his great square 
net ; but never did we see them catch a fish, 
although on our return the same men were working 
as assiduously as ever. The country presented the 
same compact system of farming, the hills in many 
places being terraced to their very summits, and 
planted with waving crops of wheat and millet, 
beans, and vegetables of every description. Toward 
noon we passed the " Ta" and " Lao Kin Shan" 
(great and little golden mountain), and by the 
time Aling had announced "tiffin" (luncheon), 
we were abreast of Kin Kow, a picturesque village 

= 5o 



in the neighborhood of which I generally found 
some excellent shooting. After tiffin ive again 
resumed our camp-stools. I lighted a cigar, and 
Akong smoked his hubble-bubble, a small copy 
of the nargileh of the Turks. The river was alive 
with junks, some going in the same direction as 
ourselves, and others loaded with tea, charcoal, 
vegetable tallow, oil of various kinds, and gypsum, 
brought, most of them, from the far western 
province of Sze Chuen. 

There was but little variety in the journey until 
the following day, when we approached the great 
bend in the Yang Tsze, and Akong told us that, if 
so inclined, we could land from the boat, and by 
walking six or eight miles across the country join 
the boat again, the bend rendering it necessary 
for her to go around some thirty or forty miles. 
This we gladly assented to, and taking my gun, 
in hopes of meeting with some snipe in the paddy- 
fields, and with Aling and a coolie for interpreters, 
we landed. 

Charley and I both experienced a rather queer 
sensation as we watched the boat sail off, and found 
ourselves with no other white man within a hundred 
or more miles. The country ahead was one im- 
mense rice-field, divided by dykes or banks paved 
with stones and forming paths for walking. At 
some distance we saw a large clump of bamboos 
with tall elms beyond, indicating a village, called, 
as a coolie at work in a ditch informed us, 
Fi-Loong. Soon we saw a broad creek with 
a handsome stone bridge over it, and on the 
other side an unusually large house of two 
stories, which turned out to belong to the 
Te-poy, or local magistrate of the place. 
The old gentleman himself was sitting out- 
side of the house having his head shaved by 
the village barber. He politely invited us 
to wait, and after the shaving was over re- 
galed us with a cup of tea, — rather weak, 
but refreshing, — and after chin-chin-ing we 
resumed our journey. 

Can you see our party trudging along ? 
Beyond the village were more paddy-fields, 
from which occasionally a great white paddy- 
bird arose. I shot one of them, to the 
great delight of our coolie, who pronounced it 
No. I good chow-chow ; but Charley and I were 
much more pleased at the sight of several English 
snipe. Reaching an old lotus-pond, a shot scared 
up these birds almost in myriads, and a good 
bunch of them promised a very welcome addition 
to our dinner. Meanwhile we had been follow- 
ing a creek, which we now needed to cross. But 
before long Aling espied a man in the distance 
at work with a huge buffalo, and exclaiming, 
"Hi-yah ! belly good walkee now," rushed off in 

that direction. He soon returned with the buffalo 
and his owner, and indicated that we could cross on 
the back of the former. The huge, ungainly beast 
threw up his head and snorted when he caught 
sight of the "fanquis," or foreign devils, but a 
pull at the ring through his nose soon brought 
him to subjection. 

" How much does he want, Aling, to carry us 
over ? " 

" He say ten cash can do." 

As this sum (one cent) was not an unreasonable 
ferriage, we nodded ; and the buffalo being led 
into the water near the bank, I mounted first, 
then came Charley with his arms around me, then 
Aling, who had climbed up behind. When we 
were half-way over, Charley laughed so heartily at 
the ridiculous figure we made that the buffalo gave 
another snort, and threatened to roll us off, into the 
muddy water, but we landed safely, and giving the 
man his ten cash, went on again. The rest of the 
walk was without adventure, and we finally arrived 
at the river-bank just as the boat was coming 
around the point below us. 

That evening we left the main river and tracked 
up a tributary stream until we came to a broad 
canal, which Akong informed us led direct to our 

Turning out of our beds the next morning we 
found the boat moored to the bank of the canal, 


opposite a long, rambling, one-storied building, 
which proved to be the "hong" of the tea-mer- 
chant to whom the neighboring plantations be- 
longed. We were really in the tea country at last. 
On every side of us, as far as the eye could reach, 
the dark-green tea-plants were growing in their 
beds of reddish sandy soil. Notwithstanding the 
cook's urgent appeals to wait until chow-chow was 
ready, we jumped ashore and into the midst of a 
crowd of noisy coolies moving in every direction, 
each with his load slung at the ends of a bamboo 



across his shoulders, and singing a monotonous 
" Aho, Alio, Aho ! " which appears as necessary 
to the Chinese carrier as the " Yo heave ho!" to 
the sailor. Long, narrow junks were lying at the 
bank, and being rapidly loaded witli the 
familiar tea-chests ; crowds of men, women 
and children were coming from the planta- 
tion, each with bags of the freshly picked 
leaves, or with baskets on their heads in which 
the more delicate kinds were carefully car- 
ried. We stepped into the building, and 
there witnessed the entire operation of assort- 
ing, firing the teas, and even the manufact- 
uring of the chests. We would gladly have 
remained, but Aho came up and informed us 
"that breakfast hab got spoilem," so we de- 
ferred further investigation until after the 

Akong joined us at breakfast, and partook 
of our curry and rice with great gusto, for 
tea-brokers as a rule are by no means averse 
to foreign chow-chow, and handle a knife and fork 
with almost as much ease as they do the native 
chop-sticks. Charley plied us both with questions 
regarding tea in general, and probably the follow- 
ing summary will pretty well represent the result 
of his queries : 

The cultivation of the tea-plant is by no means 
confined to any one district cr spot, but is scattered 
about through the different provinces, each produc- 
ing its peculiar description known to the trade by its 
distinctive name. We were now in the Hupeh or 
Oopack country, and the tea we saw being gathered 
and prepared was the heavy-liquored black-leafed 
description, known in England and to the trade as 
Congou. This Congou forms the staple of the 
mixture known in that country under the generic 
name of "black," and sometimes finds its way to 
us under the guise of " English breakfast tea." 
From Foo-chow-foo, on the coast, half-way between 
Shanghae and Hong Kong, is shipped another 
description known as red-leaf Congou, the bulk of 
which goes to England also, although we are grad- 
ually absorbing an increasing quantity. Kiu Kiang, 
on the Yang Tsze, some one hundred and forty 
miles below Hankow, shares with the latter port in 
the trade of the Hupeh country, and is, or was 
until recently, the point of shipment for the fine 
green teas grown and manufactured in the Moyune 
district, a very large proportion of which is shipped 
to this country. First in importance as a point of 
shipment is Foo-chow-foo, whence are exported, in 
addition to the red-leafed Congous, or Boheas, the 
bulk of the Oolongs. Still further down the coast 
is Amoy, from which point inferior descriptions of 
both kinds are shipped, together with some scented 
teas ; but the bulk of the latter, known as Scented 

Capers, Orange Pekoe, etc., are exported from 
Canton and Macao. These, together with a pecu- 
liar description of green, are manufactured at these 
ports from leaf grown in the neighborhood. Al- 


though no tea is grown near Shanghae, much of 
the Congou grown in the Hupeh province is sent 
there for sale, and thence shipped to England. 
The green teas from both the Moyune and Ping- 
Suey countries are also shipped from Shanghae. 

Breakfast over, we jumped ashore again, and, 
desiring to conduct our sight-seeing systematically, 
started for the fields. First we walked to the foot 
of a hill a little distance off, where some men in 
short cotton trousers and jackets were laying out 
a new plantation. The ground was accurately 
marked off, and in one place the little plants, only 
an inch or two in height, were just showing above 
the ground. In another, the seeds — little round 
balls they looked like — were being planted in the 
rows. Passing another field, where some men were 
at work with their hoes in true Chinese style, stop- 
ping every few moments to smoke their pipes, we 
came at last to where the plants had attained some 
size and the actual picking was going on. The 
plants themselves were from two to six feet high, 
according to age, and from repeated cuttings down 
had grown into dense masses of small twigs. Many 
of them were covered with little white flowers, 
somewhat similar to the jasmine, and seeds inclosed 
in a casing not unlike that of the hazel-nut, but 
thinner and full of oil. Charley thought they 
looked like little laurel bushes ; to me, those that 
had been well picked were not unlike huckleberry 
bushes, only the leaves were, of course, a much 
darker green. The first picking, usually in April, 
is when the leaves are very young and tender, com- 
manding a much higher price than those subse- 
quently plucked. The second is a month later, 
when they have attained maturity ; and as unpro- 
pitious weather would be likely to ruin them, great 




expedition is used in getting in the crop, the entire 
population turning out to assist. A third, and even 
a fourth, follows; but the quality rapidly deterio- 


rates, and but a small proportion of these last pick- 
ings is prepared for export. 

The plantations were filled with a merry crowd, 
composed principally of women and children, all 
engaged in stripping the bushes as rapidly as pos- 
sible, yet with great care and dexterity, so as not to 
bruise the leaves. They looked up from their work 
and screamed to each other in their harsh guttural 
tones, casting glances of astonishment at the bar- 
barians. Following some of the coolies, who with 
filled bags were trudging off to the curing-house, 
we saw the most interesting operation of all. Here, 
at least thirty young girls were engaged in assorting 
the leaves, picking out all the dead and yellow 
ones, and preparing them for the hands of the 
rollers and firers. Our entrance excited quite a 
commotion among the damsels, as we were prob- 
ably the first barbarians they had seen, and we had 
the reputation of living entirely on fat babies. A 
word from Akong, who had joined us, re-assured 
them, and in a few minutes Charley was airing his 
little stock of Chinese, more, I thought, to their 
amusement than their edification. Leaving this 
room we went into another where the curing was 
in progress. On one side extended a long furnace 
built of bricks, with large iron pans placed at equal 
distances, and heated by charcoal fires below. Into 
these pans leaves by the basketful were poured, 
stirred rapidly for a few minutes, and then removed 
to large bamboo frames, where they were rolled 
and kneaded until all the green juice was freed. 
They were then scattered loosely in large, flat bas- 
kets, and placed in the sun to dry. Subsequently, 
the leaves were again carried to the furnaces and 
exposed to a gentle heat, until they curled and 
twisted themselves into the shapes so familiar to 
you all. Some of the finer kinds often prepared 

for exportation are rolled over by hand before being 
fired. The great object appears to be to prevent 
the leaf from breaking; hence, in the commoner 
kinds and those intended for home con- 
sumption, which do not receive the same 
care, the leaves are found to be very much 
broken. In fact, the preparation of this 
latter sort is very simple : a mere drying in 
the sun, after which it presents, a dry, broken 
appearance, like autumn leaves. 

Green tea, although grown in particular 
districts, receives its peculiar color by being 
stirred with a mixture of gypsum and 
Prussian blue during the firing, but is pre- 
pared in a more laborious manner, the 
leaves being selected and divided to form 
the different kinds known as Imperial, Gun- 
powder, Young Hyson, Hyson, Hyson Skin 
and Twankay. An aggregation of these 
kinds, proportioned according to their value, 
forms what is known as a "chop," whereas a chop 
of black tea comprises all of one grade or quality. 
Chinamen wonder at the taste of " outside bar- 
barians " in preferring a tea colored green, but would 
provide them with a leaf of yellow or blue if there 
was a market for it. 

The entire operation pertaining to the business 
appeared to be carried on in the cluster of little 


buildings with court-yards between, but almost 
under the same roof, and afforded occupation to an 
immense number of persons. And yet the payments 

i8 7 8.] 


2 53 

could not have been very large ; from six to ten 
cents per day being about the wages they received. 
In one room men were engaged in making boxes; 
in another, lining them with thin sheets of lead. 
Further on, the outsides of the boxes were being 
pasted over with paper, on which was stamped the 
name of the tea and the maker's business-title. 
Finally, they were being filled, soldered up and 
carried off to the boats, not to be opened again 
until they reached the shop of some London grocer. 
The principal object of our'friend Akong's visit 
was to convoy with his mandarin-boat a fleet of tea- 
junks to Hankow; so that but one day was given 
us for our visit. The boats being nearly ready, it 
was arranged that we should start on our return the 
following morning. The evening was devoted to 
a dinner and " sing-song" given for our entertain- 
ment by the tea-men. Alio asked if he should 
take our knives and forks, a proposition which we 
indignantly rejected. As it was to be a Chinese 
dinner, we determined to do it in Chinese style, 
chop-sticks and all. Such a dinner! We were 
seated at little square tables holding four persons 
each, the Chinamen all dressed in their official or 
state costumes. First came little dishes of sweet- 
meats and then bowls of bird's-nest soup, with the 
jelly-like substance floating about in it in company 

with little pieces of chicken. This was very nice, 
although we did all eat out of the same bowl, using 
little porcelain spoons. Then came more sweet- 
meats, followed by dishes of biche de mer, or sea- 
slugs and fat pork; this we passed, but not until 
an over-polite Chinaman took up a gristly piece of 
something with his chop-sticks, and, after biting off 
a piece, passed the rest to Charley. The chop-sticks 
we could not manage ; the meat would,, slip out of 
them, and had it not been for the soups, of which 
there were several, and the rice, which we could 
shovel into our mouths, we should have had no 
dinner. Tea was passed by the servants continu- 
ally, as were little bowls of "samshu'' — a liquor dis- 
tilled from rice. During the dinner, the sing-song 
girls played on the native two-stringed fiddles, and 
sang in falsetto voices a selection of music, which 
was undoubtedly very fine if judged by the Chinese 
standard, but which we could not appreciate. 

The noise soon became almost intolerable, and 
we slipped off to the boat and sought our beds. 

When we awoke in the morning the whole fleet 
of tea-boats was under way, and with a fair wind 
we ran rapidly down the creek and were once more 
on the broad Yang Tsze. On the third day we 
reached Hankow safely, and well pleased with our 
trip to the tea country. 

By Olive A. Wadsworth. 

A DILIGENT Biddy was scratching one day, 

And pecking at morsels that came in her way, 

When all of a sudden she widened her eyes, 

And the feathers stood up on her head with surprise ! 

A strange -looking treasure Dame Biddy had found, 
'Twixt a brick and a clam-shell it lay on the ground ; 
The hen with a peck turned it over and over, 
But the longer she looked the less could discover. 

Cluck, cluck!" said the hen, ''as sure as I stand, 
This never was grown upon solid dry land; 
I '11 take it along to Dame Duck and her daughter, 
Thev 're wise about things that come out of the water." 

So she carried the thing in her beak to the brook. 
And called to Dame Duck to come quickly and look, 
And the dame and her child relinquished their pleasure. 
And waddled ashore to examine the treasure. 

254 TREASURE-TROVE. [Febrlaey, 

" Alack!" said the duck and " A-quack ! " said the daughter, 
" We 've never seen objects like this in the water ! 

Suppose we submit it to old Mrs. Ewe ? 

She 's wise about wool, and has seen the world, too ! " 

So the duck took it carefully up in her bill, 
And the duckling and hen followed on to the mill, 
Where the miller's fat sheep was placidly grazing, 
And there they displayed this treasure amazing. 

" Ah, bah ! " said the sheep, " what a queer-looking piece ! 
This never was parcel or part of a fleece ! 
Our flock would disown it ! — but take it, I pray, 
To Brindle, the cow, she 's wise about hay ! " 

So the sheep and the duckling, the duck and the hen, 
With the treasure set forth in procession again, 
To where the cow stood, — in the shade, as she ought, — 
A-chewing her cud and a-thinking her thought. 

" Bless my horns ! " said the cow, " I really must say, 
I 've ne'er seen the like in straw or in hay ! 
Why don't you ask Dobbin, the farmer's gray, mare? 
She 's traveled so much, and she 's wise about hair." 

So the hen and the ducks, the sheep and the cow, 
Went seeking for Dobbin, just loosed from the plow; 
They all talked at once, to make things explicit, 
And finally showed her the cause of their visit. 

But Dobbin gave snorts of dislike and dismay ; 
" Why don't you," said she, "pass it on to old Tray? 
He hunts for his food where the refuse is thrown, 
And he 's wise about cinders, and rubbish, and bone." 

So Dobbin and Brindle, and fat Mrs. Ewe, 
And the duckling and duck, and the Biddy-hen too, 
All eager for knowledge, went down the wide road 
To the kennel where Tray had his pleasant abode. 

Now Tray was a dog with a gift for detecting, 

He never would bark without briefly reflecting ; 

He snuffed at the treasure and turned it about, 

And soon would have uttered his sentence, no doubt, — 

But just then our Tommy ran up to the crowd. 
"Where did you get those, sir?" he cried out aloud. 
" They 're my new Sunday gloves ! They fell out of my hat ! 

I took them to school to show them to Matt ! 

" And, you see, Matt and I had some liquorice candy, 
Our fingers were sticky, the gloves were just handy ; 
And then, when the teacher said, ' Tom, wash your slate,' 
My sponge was all lost, and the class could n't wait. 

i8 7 8.; 


! 55 

" And 'cause I was hurrying, what do you think? 
That bothersome ink-bottle slopped out the ink ! 
You can't expect gloves to look nobby and new 
When they have to be used for a slate and ink too. 

" Now, that's reasons enough!" said poor Tommy, "I guess! 
And the company bowed a unanimous " Yes," 
And the horse, cow and sheep, duck, duckling and hen, 
Complacently turned themselves homeward again. 


By Louisa M. Alcott. 

Chapter VII. 


Next day Ben ran off to his work with Quacken- 
bos's " Elementary History of the United States" 
in his pocket, and the Squire's cows had ample 
time to breakfast on wayside grass before they were 
put into their pasture. Even then the pleasant 
lesson was not ended, for Ben had an errand to 
town, and all the way he read busily, tumbling 
over the hard words, and leaving bits which he did 
not understand to be explained at night by Bab. 

At " The First Settlements " he had to stop, for 
the school-house was reached and the book must 
be returned. The maple-tree closet was easily 
found, and a little surprise hidden under the flat 
stone ; for Ben paid two sticks of red and white 
candy for the privilege of taking books from the 
new library. 

When recess came great was the rejoicing of the 
children over their unexpected treat, for Mrs. Moss 
had few pennies to spare for sweets, and, somehow, 
this candy tasted particularly nice, bought out of 
grateful Ben's solitary dime. The little girls 
shared their goodies with their favorite mates, but 
said nothing about the new arrangement, fearing it 
would be spoilt if generally known. They told their 
mother, however, and she gave them leave to lend 
their books and encourage Ben to love learning all 
they could. She also proposed that they should 
drop patch-work and help her make some blue 
shirts for Ben. Mrs. Barton had given her the 
materials, and she thought it would be an ex- 
cellent lesson in needle-work as well as a useful 
gift to Ben — who, boy-like, never troubled him- 

self as to what he should wear when his one suit 
of clothes gave out. 

Wednesday afternoon was the sewing time, so 
the two little B's worked busily at a pair of shirt 
sleeves, sitting on their bench in the door-way, 
while the rusty needles creaked in and out, and the 
childish voices sung school-songs, with frequent 
stoppages for lively chatter. 

For a week, Ben worked away bravely, and 
never shirked nor complained, although Pat put 
many a hard or disagreeable job upon him, and 
chores grew more and more distasteful. His only 
comfort was the knowledge that Mrs. Moss and the 
Squire were satisfied with him, his only pleasure 
the lessons he learned while driving the cows, and 
recited in the evening when the three children met 
under the lilacs to " play school." 

He had no thought of studying when he began, 
and hardly knew that he was doing it as he pored 
over the different books he took from the library. 
But the little girls tried him with all they possessed, 
and he was mortified to find how ignorant he was. 
He never owned it in words, but gladly accepted 
all the bits of knowledge they offered from their 
small store; getting Betty to hear him spell ''just 
for fun ; " agreeing to draw Bab all the bears and 
tigers she wanted if she would show him how to do 
sums on the flags, and often beguiled his lonely 
labors by trying to chant the multiplication table 
as they did. When Tuesday night came round 
the Squire paid him a dollar, said he was " a likely 
boy," and might stay another week if he chose. 
Ben thanked him and thought he would, but the 
next morning, after he had put up the bars, he 
remained sitting on the top rail to consider his 




prospects, for he felt uncommonly reluctant to go 
back to the society of rough Pat. Like most boys 
he hated work, unless it was of a sort which just 
suited him ; then he could toil like a beaver and 
never tire. His wandering life had given him no 
habits of steady industry, and while, he was an un- 
usually capable lad of his age, he dearly loved to 
loaf about and have a good deal of variety and ex- 
citement in his life. 

Now he saw nothing before him but days of patient 
and very uninteresting labor. He was heartily 
sick of weeding ; even riding Duke before the 
cultivator had lost its charms, and a great pile 
of wood lay in the Squire's yard Which he knew 
he would be set to piling up in the shed. Straw- 
berry-picking would soon follow the asparagus cul- 
tivation, then haying, and so on all the long, bright 
summer, without any fun, unless his father came 
for him. 

On the other hand, he was not obliged to stay a 
minute longer unless he liked. With a comfortable 
suit of clothes, a dollar in his pocket, and a row of 
dinner-baskets hanging in the school-house entry 
to supply him with provisions if he did n't mind 
stealing them, what was easier than to run away 
again ? Tramping has its charms in fair weather, 
and Ben had lived like a gypsy under canvas for 
years, so he feared nothing, and began to look 
down the leafy road with a restless, wistful expres- 
sion, as the temptation grew stronger and stronger 
every minute. 

Sancho seemed to share the longing, for he kept 
running off a little way and stopping to frisk and 
bark, then rushed back to sit watching his master 
with those intelligent eyes of his, which seemed to 
say, "Come on, Ben, let us scamper down this 
pleasant road and never stop till we are tired." 
Swallows darted by, white clouds fled before the 
balmy west wind, a squirrel ran along the wall, and 
all things seemed to echo the boy's desire to leave 
toil behind and roam away as care-free as they. 
One thing restrained him, — the thought of his seem- 
ing ingratitude to good Mrs. Moss, and the dis- 
appointment of the little girls at the loss of their 
two new play-fellow s. While he paused to think of 
this, something happened which kept him from 
doing what he would have been sure to regret 

Horses had always been his best friends, and one 
came trotting up to help him now, though he did 
not know how much he owed it till long after. 
Just in the act of swinging himself over the bars to 
take a short cut across the fields, the sound of ap- 
proaching hoofs, unaccompanied by the roll of 
wheels, caught his ear, and pausing, he watched 
eagerly to see who was coming at such a pace. 

At the turn of the road, however, the quick trot 

stopped, and in a moment a lady on a bay mare 
came pacing slowly into sight, — a young and pretty 
lady, all in dark blue, with a bunch of dandelions 
like yellow stars in her button-hole, and a silver- 
handled whip hanging from the pommel of her 
saddle, evidently more for ornament than use. 
The handsome mare limped a little and shook her 
head as if something plagued her, while her mis- 
tress leaned down to see what was the matter, say- 
ing, as if she expected an answer of some sort : 

" Now, Chevalita, if you have got a stone in 
your foot, I shall have to get off and take it out. 
Why don't you look where you step and save me 
all this trouble?" •> 

'• I '11 look for you, ma'am; I 'd like to !" said 
an eager voice so unexpectedly that both horse and 
rider started as a boy came down the bank with a 

'• I wish you would. You need not be afraid; 
Lita is as gentle as a lamb," answered the young 
lady, smiling, as if amused by the boy's earnest- 

" She's a beauty, anyway," muttered Ben, lifting 
one foot after another till he found the stone, and 
with some trouble got it out. 

" That was nicely done, and I 'm much obliged. 
Can you tell me if that cross-road leads to the 
Elms ? " asked the lady, as she went slowly on with 
Ben beside her. 

" No, ma'am ; I 'm new in these parts, and I 
only know where Squire Allen and Mrs. Moss 

" I want to see both of them, so suppose you 
show me the way. I was here long ago, and 
thought I should remember how to find the old 
house with the elm avenue and the big gate, but I 

"I know it; they call that place the Laylocks 
now, 'cause there 's a hedge of 'em all down the 
path and front wall. It 's a real pretty place ; Bab 
and Betty play there, and so do I." 

Ben could not restrain a chuckle at the recollec- 
tion of his first appearance there, and as if his 
merriment or his words interested her, the lady 
said, pleasantly : " Tell me all about it. Are Bab 
and Betty your sisters ? " 

Quite forgetting his intended tramp, Ben plunged 
into a copious history of himself and new-made 
friends, led on by a kind look, an inquiring word, 
and sympathetic smile, till he had told everything. 
At the school-house corner he stopped and said, 
spreading his arms like a sign-post : 

" That 's the way to the Laylocks, and this is the 
way to the Squire's." 

" As I 'm in a hurry to see the old house, I '11 go 
this way first, if you will be kind enough to give my 
love to Mrs. Allen, and tell the Squire Miss Celia 

i8 7 8.] 


2 57 

is coming to dine with him. I wont say good-by, could not help hearing a word now and then, as 
because I shall see you again." the windows were open, and these bits of conversa- 
With a nod and a smile the young lady cantered tion filled him with curiosity, for the names 
away, and Ben hurried up the hill to deliver his "Thorny," "Celia," and '' George" were often re- 
message, feeling as if something pleasant was going pcated, and an occasional merry laugh from the 


to happen, so it would be wise to defer running 
away, for the present at least. 

At one o'clock Miss Celia arrived, and Ben had 
the delight of helping Pat stable pretty Chevalita ; 
then, his own dinner hastily eaten, he fell to work 
at the detested wood-pile with sudden energy, for, 
as he worked, he could steal peeps into the dining- 
room, and see the curly brown head between the 
two gray ones as the three sat round the table. He 
Vol. V. — iS. 

young lady sounded like music in that usually 
quiet place. 

When dinner was over, Ben's industrious fit left 
him, and he leisurely trundled his barrow to and 
fro till the guest departed. There was no chance 
for him to help now, since Pat, anxious to get what- 
ever trifle might be offered for his services, was 
quite devoted in his attentions to the mare and her 
mistress till she was mounted and off. But Miss 



Celia did not forget her little guide, and spying a 
wistful face behind the wood-pile, paused at the 
gate and beckoned with that winning smile of hers. 
If ten Pats had stood scowling in the way Ben 
would have defied them all, and vaulting over the 
fence he ran up with a shining face, hoping she 
wanted some last favor of him. Leaning down, 
Miss Celia slipped a new quarter into his hand, 
saying : 

" Lita wants me to give you this for taking the 
stone out of her foot." 

" Thanky, ma'am ; I liked to do it, for I hate to 
see 'em limp, 'specially such a pretty one as she is," 
answered Ben, stroking the glossy neck with a lov- 
ing touch. 

" The Squire says you know a good deal about 
horses, so I suppose you understand the Houyhn- 
hnm language ? I 'm learning it, and it is very 
nice," laughed Miss Celia, as Chevalita gave a little 
whinny and snuggled her nose into Ben's pocket 

" No, miss, I never went to school." 

" That is not taught there. I '11 bring you a 
book all about it when I come back. Mr. Gulliver 
went to the horse-country and heard the dear things 
speak their own tongue." 

" My father has been on the prairies where 
there 's lots of wild ones, but he did n't hear 'em 
speak. I know what they want without talkin'," 
answered Ben, suspecting a joke, but not exactly 
seeing what it was. 

" I don't doubt it, but I wont forget the book. 
Good-by, my lad, we shall soon meet again," and 
away went Miss Celia as if she was in a hurry to 
get back. 

"If she only had a red habit and a streamin' 
white feather, she 'd look as fine as Melia used to. 
She is 'most as kind and rides 'most as well. Won- 
der where she 's goin' to. Hope she will come 
soon," thought Ben, watching till the last flutter of 
the blue habit vanished round the corner, and then 
he went back to his work with his head full of the 
promised book, pausing now and then to chink the 
two silver halves and the new quarter together in 
his pocket, wondering what he should buy with 
this vast sum. 

Bab and Betty meantime had had a most excit- 
ing day, for when they went home at noon they 
found the pretty lady there, and she had talked to 
them like an old friend, given them a ride on the 
little horse, and kissed them both good-by when 
they went back to school. In the afternoon the 
lady was gone, the old house all open, and their 
mother sweeping, dusting, airing in great spirits. 
So they had a splendid frolic tumbling on feather 
beds, beating bits of carpet, opening closets, and 
racing from garret to cellar like a pair of distracted 

Here Ben found them, and was at once over- 
whelmed with a burst of news which excited him as 
much as it did them. Miss Celia owned the house, 
was coming to live there, and things were to be 
made .ready as soon as possible. All thought the 
prospect a charming one; Mrs. Moss because life 
had been dull ior her during the year she had 
taken charge of the old house ; the little girls had 
heard rumors of various pets who were coming, 
and Ben, learning that a boy and a donkey were 
among them, resolved that nothing but the arrival 
of his father should tear him from this now deeply 
interesting spot. 

"I 'm in such a hurry to see the peacocks and 
hear them stream. She said they did, and that 
we 'd laugh when old Jack brayed," cried Bab, 
hopping about on one foot to work off her im- 

" Is a fay tun a kind of a bird ? I heard her say 
she could keep it in the coach-house," asked Betty, 

"It's a little carriage," and Ben rolled in the 
grass, much tickled at poor Betty's ignorance. 

" Of course it is. I looked it out in the die, and 
you must n't call it a payton though it is spelt with 
a p," added Bab, who liked to lay down the law 
on all occasions, and did not mention that she had 
looked vainly among the f's till a school-mate set 
her right. 

" You can't tell ?ne much about carriages. But 
what I want to know is where Lita will stay ? " said 

" Oh, she 's to be up at the Squire's till things 
are fixed, and you are to bring her down. Squire 
came and told Ma all about it, and said you were a 
boy to be trusted, for he had tried you." 

Ben made ho answer, but secretly thanked his 
stars that he had not proved himself untrustworthy 
by running away, and so missing all this fun. 

" Wont it be fine to have the house open all the 
time ? We can run over and see the pictures and 
books whenever we like. I know we can, Miss 
Celia is so kind," began Betty, who cared for these 
things more than for screaming peacocks and comi- 
cal donkeys. 

: ' Not unless you are invited," answered their 
mother, locking the front door behind her. 
"You'd better begin to pick up your duds right 
away, for she wont want them cluttering round her 
front yard. If you are not too tired, Ben, you 
might rake round a little while I shut the blinds. I 
want things to look nice and tidy." 

Two little groans went up from two afflicted little 
girls as they looked about them at the shady bower, 
the dear porch, and the winding walks where they 
loved to run " till their hair whistled in the wind," 
as the fairy-books say. 

i8 7 8.J 


2 59 

" Whatever shall we do ! Our attic is so hot 
and the shed so small, and the yard always full of 
hens or clothes. We shall have to pack all our 
things away and never play any more," said Bab, 

" May be Ben could build us a little house in the 
orchard," proposed Betty, who firmly believed that 
Ben could do anything. 

" He wont have any time. Boys don't care for 
baby-houses," returned Bab, collecting her home- 
less goods and chattels with a dismal face. 

" We sha' n't want these much when all the new 
things come; see if we do," said cheerful little 
Betty, who always found out a silver lining to every 

Chapter VIII. 


Ben was not too tired, and the clearing-up began 
that very night. None too soon, for, in a day or 
two, things arrived, to the great delight of the chil- 
dren, who considered moving a most interesting 
play. First came the phaeton, which Ben spent 
all his leisure moments in admiring, wondering 
with secret envy what happy boy would ride in the 
little seat up behind, and beguiling his tasks by 
planning how, when he got rich, he would pass his 
time driving about in just such an equipage, and 
inviting all the boys he met to have a ride. 

Then a load of furniture came creaking in at the 
lodge gate, and the girls had raptures over a cot- 
tage piano, several small chairs, and a little low- 
table, which they pronounced just the thing for 
them to play at. The live stock appeared next, 
creating a great stir in the neighborhood, for pea- 
cocks were rare birds there ; the donkey's bray 
startled the cattle and convulsed the people with 
laughter; the rabbits were continually getting out 
to burrow in the newly made garden ; and Cheva- 
Iita scandalized old Duke by dancing about the 
stable which he had inhabited for years in stately 

Last, but by no means least, Miss Celia, her 
young brother and two maids, arrived one evening 
so late that only Mrs. Moss went over to help them 
settle. The children were much disappointed, but 
were appeased by a promise that they should all go 
to pay their respects in the morning. 

They were up so early, and were so impatient to 
be off, that Mrs. Moss let them go with the warn- 
ing that they would find only the servants astir. 
She was mistaken, however, for as the procession 
approached, a voice from the porch called out : 
"Good morning, little neighbors!" so unexpect- 
edly, that Bab nearly spilt the new milk she car- 
ried, Betty gave such a start that the fresh-laid 
eggs quite skipped in the dish, and Ben's face 

broke into a broad grin over the armful of clover 
which he brought for the bunnies, as he bobbed 
his head, saying, briskly : 

" She's all right, miss; Lita is, and I can bring 
her over any minute you say." 

" I shall want her at four o'clock. Thorny will 
be too tired to drive, but I must hear from the 
post-office, rain or shine;" and Miss Celia's pretty 
color brightened as she spoke, either from some 
happy thought or because she was bashful, for the 
honest young faces before her plainly showed their 
admiration of the white-gowned lady under the 

The appearance of Miranda, the maid, reminded 
the children of their errand, and having delivered 
their offerings, they were about to retire in some 
confusion, when Miss Celia said pleasantly : 

" I want to thank you for helping put things in 
such nice order. I see signs of busy hands and 
feet both inside the house and all about the grounds, 
and I am very much obliged." 

"I raked the beds," said' Ben, proudly eying 
the neat ovals and circles. 

" I-swept all the paths," added Bab, with a re- 
proachful glance at several green sprigs fallen from 
the load of clover on the smooth walk. 

" I cleared up the porch," and Betty's ciean 
pinafore rose and fell with a long sigh, as she sur- 
veyed the late summer residence of her exiled 

Miss Celia guessed the meaning of that sigh, and 
made haste to turn it into a smile by asking, anx- 
iously : 

"' What has become of the playthings ? I don't 
see them anywhere." 

" Ma said you would n't want our duds round, so 
we took them all home," answered Betty, with a 
wistful face. 

" But I do want them round. I like dolls and 
toys almost as much as ever, and quite miss the 
little "duds" from porch and path. Suppose you 
come to tea with me to-night and bring some of 
them back ? I should be very sorry to rob you of 
your pleasant play-place." 

"Oh yes 'm, we'd love to come! and we'll 
bring our best things." 

" Ma always lets us have our shiny pitchers and 
the china poodle when we go visiting or have com- 
pany at home," said Bab and Betty, both speaking 
at once. 

" Bring what you like and I '11 hunt up my toys 
too. Ben is to come also, and his poodle is espe- 
cially invited," added Miss Celia as Sancho came 
and begged before her, feeling that some agreeable 
project was under discussion. 

" Thank you, miss. I told them you 'd be will- 
ing they should come sometimes. They like this 




place ever so much, and so do I," said Ben, feeling 
that few spots combined so many advantages in the 
way of climbable trees, arched gates, half-a-dozen 
gables, and other charms suited to the taste of an 
aspiring youth who had been a flying Cupid at the 
age of seven. 

" So do I," echoed Miss Celia, heartily. ''Ten 
years ago I came here a little girl, and made lilac 
chains under these very bushes, and picked chick- 
weed over there for my bird, and rode Thorny in 
his baby-wagon up and